


Something to Hold On To

by kalikala28



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Blood, Canon divergent after 10x14, DCBB 2015 attempt, Demon!Dean, Denial, Grace Bonds, Grace Sharing, Grief/Mourning, I hate to tag this, M/M, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Soul Bond, at all, but in the spirit of full disclosure I probably should, but like, not really - Freeform, you will probably cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4596297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalikala28/pseuds/kalikala28
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killing Cain sends Dean spiraling into darkness. Sam has done all he can, and fears he's lost his brother for good this time. Castiel is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to save Dean from the Mark, but doesn't bother to ask Dean if he can actually live with that. </p>
<p>"God, please, I just need something to hold on to."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The creature in front of him hissed as he pressed the plunger on the syringe down, and then it cackled at him when he jerked the needle away from its neck. He frowned at it and then turned away. It wasn’t working. Sam looked at his watch and swallowed against the thick feeling in his throat. That had been the eighteenth dose of his blood. Eighteen hours of watching the thing that had been his brother taunt and rage and manipulate, but _it wasn’t working_. Maybe his blood just wasn’t pure enough, even with a confession and blessing. Last time, he’d had a priest bless bags of donated blood, but there just hadn’t been _time._ The taint of the Mark had overwhelmed his brother in a sudden, unanticipated surge of bloodlust, and Sam had only just been able to restrain him before he’d massacred an _entire_ subdivision.

Still, he’d been too late.

The thing was still chuckling behind him. “Something the matter, Sammy?” It almost purred. “Why don’t you tell your big brother all that’s bothering you?” It cackled again.

Sam clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth until he thought they might break. God, he was tired. He didn’t know what to do. The purification ceremony wasn’t working, it only seemed less effective as each hour passed, and if it didn’t work… That would mean he’d have to kill this thing his brother was now, if he could bring himself to, and if it was even possible.

It was a problem with no solution. The Mark of Cain had warped Dean into a Knight of Hell, a thing that could only be destroyed by someone who wielded both the First Blade and the Mark, but anybody that carried the Mark would inevitably turn into a Knight, and that took them right back to square one.

He sucked in a deep breath and counted the syringes again, trying to focus on the flow of air within him. He exhaled slowly. It wasn’t working. Inhale. His brother was dying, maybe dead already. Exhale. He couldn’t kill the thing that wore Dean’s face. Inhale. His hands were shaking. Exhale. He turned to face it.

“Dean.” He’d meant to sound firm, but the word shattered as it fell from his lips. He shook his head and crouched so he was at eye level with the bound demon. Its eyes were planes of black, and it smirked at him. Sam tried to look past it. “Come on, man. You have to fight this. I need you to fight this. I can’t…” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. The words wouldn’t come, and they wouldn’t have made a difference if they had.

The eyes flicked from flat black to a familiar vivid green, and the thing’s whole demeanor changed. Sam knew— _knew_ —that it was false, just another ploy to wind him up, but he could not beat back the hope that flickered in him. “Sam?” It asked, blinking.

Sam tsked as he backed away and flicked droplets of holy water at it from a flask. The demon spit and hissed and smoked, just as he’d suspected, but still he felt the hope in him die, could taste its corpse in the bile that rose in the back of his throat. It tasted like disappointment; it tasted like failure.

“Couldn’t fool you for a minute, could I Sammy?” The demon strained forward against the ropes that bound him to the chair and green gave way to black once more. “It’s true, you know. That thing you keep thinking.” Teeth gleamed white behind smirking lips. “There’s nothing you can do to stop me. You’re hopeless, Sammy. In every sense of the word. It’s  _too late_ .” It relaxed back against the chair once more, openly gloating.

Sam didn’t bother with a reply, there was nothing else to say. He turned and left the room, barring the door behind him. He leaned against the door, relieved to have it between him and the monster in the other room. He looked at his watch and set the alarm for the next dose, though he wasn’t entirely sure why he bothered. He walked numbly down the hall and towards the kitchen, completely on auto pilot.

He was exhausted, drained. He hadn’t slept in over 24 hours and all he wanted was to crawl into his bed and cease existing for a while. He realized he was staring blankly into the fridge, and didn’t remember opening it. Shaking his head, he closed the door and pulled a glass down from the cupboard. He filled it at the sink, but didn’t bring it to his lips.

Not for the first time, Sam’s mind wandered to the angel, Castiel, and he reflexively sent a prayer for help. He’d spent an unprecedented amount of time praying today, at first just to Cas but then, as the desperation in him grew, he addressed other angels too. He prayed to Hannah and Joshua, who were the only angels Sam knew of that had seemed to sympathize with humanity. Eventually, he even prayed to Anna and Balthazar and Gabriel, though he knew that they were dead. The lack of response was at the same time infuriating and worrisome; especially from Castiel. Sam hadn’t ever had the same kind of response time with Cas that Dean had, but he’d never been flat out ignored for this long, not when it was about Dean.

It was complicated, the thing with Dean and Castiel. They were friends—all three of them—but there was something  _else_ between his brother and the angel. Some undefined potential that—by some unspoken rule—they never mentioned, and, because of the perpetual shit storm that was their life, never got a chance to be realized.

Sam was trying very hard not to resent Castiel for not answering. He knew that if the angel could hear him and had the power to do so, he would have appeared at the first mention of Dean’s name. The fact that he hadn’t… That did not spell good news. It was even harder not to resent him for leaving in the first place, only days after Dean had killed Cain, the Father of the Mark. He  _tried_ to be understanding, to remind himself that Cas had his own worries and his own needs, that he would only stay away if it was  _important_ , but they’d  _known_ Dean was only barely holding on. How could he just leave? Damn it, Dean  _needed_ him.

“Where  _are_ you?!” He demanded to the empty room, and hurled the glass in his hand at the wall. It shattered against the concrete, strangely beautiful; water splashed and ran in rivulets that darkened the stone wherever it made contact, and tiny shards of glass glinted on the wet tile. Sam was breathing in great huffs and wrenched open the cupboard to grab another glass which joined the first quick enough. He snatched up a third glass and turned to add it to the pile, but he didn’t. As quickly as the rage had boiled up, it left him, evaporating into the air and leaving him empty. His whole body loosened, and his shoulders sagged under the weight of his hopelessness and sorrow. He let the glass slip from his fingers and into the sink where it shattered anyway.

Sam gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, staring at the broken bits that littered the basin, and the muscle in his jaw jumped. It was over, they had lost the fight. His breath was nothing but choked gasps and wracking sobs and his shoulders shook with the force of them. After everything they had survived, after every victory that had had to be carved from the pain of their sacrifices, only for it to mean nothing, now. The Winchesters were beaten.  _Finally defeated._ Tears slid down the line of his nose, and gathered together at the end of it before splashing down among the broken glass.

Cas was missing, Dean was all but gone, and Sam was lost without them.

He stayed that way for a long time, hunched over the sink and despairing, until the  _tick tick tick_ of the clock on the wall became unbearable. He stood, ignoring the pain that lanced through the stiff muscles of his back, and dried his face on the hem of his shirt. His eyes fell on the glinting pile of broken glass, and he went about cleaning it up with a resigned numbness; too raw to feel anything at all.

His apathy was not enough to deaden his senses or his lifelong training, however, and some sudden change in the air and soft rustle of cloth alerted him to another’s presence. His body tensed, and he turned slowly, expecting to face the monster his brother had become—expecting to die.

It was only Castiel, standing stiffly in the doorway. He looked well, all things considered. “Sam.” He said by way of greeting, nodding his head the smallest fraction. Some myriad of emotions must have flited across Sam’s face, because he said it again; a question this time, full of worry and fear. “Sam?”

A cold rage flared in Sam. That he would show up—that he would bother to worry  _now_ , when it was too late… it was too much to let go. “Where have you been?” He bit out coldly, turning back to his task without waiting for a reply.

“I was… preoccupied.” The angel answered carefully; though whether in an attempt to conceal the truth or because of Sam’s mood, the hunter wasn’t sure.

“Preoccupied.” Sam repeated, scoffing. Tossing pieces of glass into the garbage with a little too much force.

“I had other—“

“It doesn’t matter.” He snapped, striding across the room to get the broom.

Castiel watched him sweep up the glass, dread settling into his chest. “Sam? Where’s Dean?” He did not miss the way the man’s shoulders slumped slightly at the mention of his brother.

Sam made himself finish sweeping the bits of glass off the floor before muttering an answer, and with a sigh, all the fight in him died. “It’s too late, Cas.”

The angel strode towards him and grabbed his shoulder roughly, turning him and craning up to search Sam’s face. “What do you—“

The shrill beep of Sam’s wristwatch interrupted him, and Sam sighed tiredly. “Dean’s gone.” Despite his best efforts, his voice cracked. Castiel’s fingers dug into his arms, and his head shook in dissent, rejecting the very notion. Sam clarified, “He-he’s not Dean anymore. He’s a demon.”

“The purification ceremony—“

“It’s not working. I thought it was, at first, but he barely even registers a dose now.” Castiel abruptly let him go, and Sam ran a hand through his hair, watching the angel turn the situation over in his mind.

“Where is he? Take me to him.” He demanded. Sam opened his mouth to object, but Castiel held up a hand, his tone softening. “I need to see him.”

Sam hesitated, and the muscle in his jaw ticked as he grit his teeth, but something about the determined look on Cas’ face made him acquiesce. He sighed, then nodded, and beckoned for Castiel to follow.

Sam opened the door slowly and entered the room first, moving cautiously and double checking the binds that held the demon. It smirked at him and laughed cruelly. “Time for my next dose already, Doc?” Sam ignored him, picking up a syringe to fill with his blood. “Bring on the healin’ then.”

Castiel couldn’t stop the short, sharp intake of breath when he entered the room and laid eyes on Dean. The sound caught the demon’s attention, and its grin grew predatory. “Well, helllloooo nurse.”

“Ignore him.” Sam deadpanned. He hesitated, regarding the syringe full of his blood uncertainly. What was the point anymore?

“Do it.” Castiel urged, his gaze never leaving the figure tied to the chair in the center of the room.

Sam watched Castiel study the demon, and was half tempted to refuse to continue out of the sheer hopelessness of it all. He knew, however, that the angel needed to see the lack of progress for himself, so Sam turned to the demon and pressed the needle into its neck. When he pulled away, the monster sneered at him. “Jeez Sam, careful now, that stuff stings.”

Sam threw the syringe back onto the tray in frustration. “You see? I don’t know if it’s my blood or the Mark or… the whole thing is just pointless.”

“No.” Castiel said, still watching the figure in front of them.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Sam demanded tiredly. “Look! It barely even flinched!” The demon laughed at his frustration, and Sam fought the urge to backhand it.

“The ritual has not been pointless, Sam. It’s true that it’s not reversing the effects of the Mark as it did before, but it’s slowing them. Hope is… not completely lost.” He said the last bit carefully, as if he wasn’t entirely sure that there was any truth to the words. “Dean’s soul is tarnished, and weary, but even now he fights the darkness that consumes him. The doses of purified blood  _have_ made a difference, they stem the tide for a time, giving him a reprieve. If you hadn’t been so diligent, he would have lost himself completely.” Castiel paused, then said quietly, “I had forgotten how  _brightly_ …” The angel shook his head. “Your brother’s soul is a wonder, Sam.”

The demon chuckled darkly, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Naughty, naughty, angel. Taking a peek at me without my say so. I  _wondered_ why you hadn’t made an appearance… Had to top off your tank before running on empty, hmm? Whose batteries did you steal? Hannah’s? Did you give her those sad eyes before you sliced her open?  _Did you do it for me?_ Oh, now that would be sweet. Tell me you ganked that bitch  _for me._ ” 

Sam grabbed Castiel’s shoulder and spun him roughly until they were face to face. “Is  _that_ where you’ve been?! Stealing more Grace? Is  _that_ why you couldn’t be bothered to answer me?”

Castiel let Sam manhandle him, waiting until he had calmed a fraction before answering. “I haven’t stolen any Grace.”

“But you can suddenly see souls again?” Sam challenged.

“The Grace I have now is my own. Recovering it was… very difficult, but that is why I couldn’t come to you right away. It was the only hope I had of being able to help Dean anyway, so there was little point in answering you without it.”

Sam crossed his arms and searched the angel’s face for a long time, looking for a lie before he let any hope take hold. “So you can help him? Now that you have your juice back, you can bring him back? Will it get rid of the Mark?”

“I-I believe so, yes.” Castiel looked again to the soul that had always been a beacon for him in the darkness; the one that had drawn him through the labyrinth of choking ash and burning Hellfire—even as his brothers and sisters fought and fell beside him. The one that had accepted him as he had been—broken and riddled with doubt. The one that had cushioned his fall… He closed his eyes against the shimmering light, against the pain of regret, but his returned Grace meant that he did not need them to see it. “I had hoped for more time, before this was required, but it will have to be done now.” He took off his coat and slung it on the back of an empty chair, and then meticulously rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The Demon had gone quiet, and was watching him tensely. “You’ll need to step outside.” Castiel said over his shoulder to Sam.

Sam didn’t move, a sickening feeling settling in his stomach. “What are you going to do?” He did not get an answer. “Cas.” He said forcefully. “What are you going to do?”

Castiel set his shoulders before turning to face his friend. “I’m going to do what is necessary.”

Sam didn’t like the way Castiel had dodged the question, something in his resigned manner had alarms ringing in Sam’s head. “What exactly does that mean?” His jaw was ticking again, he could feel the muscle jumping, but couldn’t make it stop.

A huff of annoyance escaped the angel, he didn’t want to argue with Sam about this, not now. He’d made his decision the moment Dean had handed him the first blade and then collapsed into his brother’s arms, but he knew if Sam knew the finer details of what he was about to do, the man would never allow it. Castiel briefly entertained the thought of waiting him out, but Sam was bull headed, and there was not enough time with which to gamble. He glanced at the demon. It was watching him with a hint of wariness now, which Castiel took to mean that it had a good idea about what he was going to attempt. He turned back to Sam. “I am going to use my Grace to purify him. It will banish the darkness, and, hopefully, rid him of the Mark.”

Sam chewed on that for a moment, eyeing him distrustfully. He knew that there was no limit to the sacrifices Cas would make for Dean, he’d seen it before. He crossed his arms. “Isn’t that a bit dangerous?”

“No.” Castiel couldn’t quite meet Sam’s stare. “I can’t promise that it will be comfortable for him, it’s more likely that it will hurt like Hell, but I will try to be as gentle as possible, and he shouldn’t suffer any lasting damage.”

“I meant for  _you_ , Cas.”

“Oh. Then, yes. Unbelievably dangerous.” His answer was so matter of fact that Sam couldn’t think of anything to say, but Castiel could sense his objection. “This is the only way, Sam. We have to either save Dean, or kill him, but the Mark  _must_ be destroyed. Not just for Dean, or for us, but for the good of  _all._ ”

Sam shook his head. “Not when it sounds like… like you don’t expect to walk away from this. No. I can’t—Dean wouldn’t—“

“It’s true that it is… unlikely that I will survive this procedure, but it is possible.” Castiel waited for Sam to meet his gaze before he continued. “The same could be said of a life without him.”

Sam closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. There it was. That thing none of them ever mentioned. The unfairness of it all was suffocating. He knew then that there would be no changing Castiel’s mind, still, he couldn’t just stand back and let him do this. “How sure are you that this would even work?”

He lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “My Grace should be adequate.”

“”Should be?!” “Adequate?!” No.  _No._ What you are asking—“ He ran a hand over his face. “Damn it, Cas. I will  _not_ choose between my best friend and my brother!”

Castiel took the few steps towards him and set a hand up on his shoulder, in an attempt at comfort. Sam looked at him imploringly, but Castiel only shook his head. “I am not asking for your permission, Sam.”

“Cas, please. You aren’t even sure that this will work, and then what? I-I can’t lose you both. I  _can’t._ ”

“You won’t.” He answered, determination plain in his voice.

“Look,” Sam bargained, “at least… rest first. You  _just_ got your juice back, what, an hour ago? Give it some time to reacquaint and replenish—“

The angel shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way.”

Sam bristled at that. “How the hell would you know?! Did you brush up on your Grace lore while you were putzing around Heaven? Exactly how many angels have had their Grace ripped away and then gotten it back?”

Castiel glared at him, annoyed. “There isn’t time for me to rest, Sam. He’s fighting, yes, but it’s…” He looked back at the demon and softened his tone. “It’s a losing battle.”

“I—“ Sam closed his eyes against the pain etched on Castiel’s face, sure that it mirrored his own, and took a slow, shaky breath. When he opened them, Cas was looking at him sadly. “I don’t  _care._ ” Sam finished. They both saw the lie for what it was, but he forced it out anyway. “I won’t let you do this. I want my brother back, but the  _cost_ , Cas. If you don’t— if something happens to you… Dean will never stop hating himself, and he’ll never forgive me for allowing it.”

“You forgave Dean for using Gadreel to save your life,” he reasoned, “even when you did not want to be saved, Dean will forgive you this.”

Sam could feel the disbelief on his face. “That’s completely different, Cas!”

Castiel shook his head. “How? How is this any different than—“

“Because healing me wasn’t going to kill Gadreel!”

“You think that would have mattered? You think Dean would have done any differently if it meant Gadreel’s life?! Dean would have sacrificed a thousand angels to save you!” They were both shouting now, the creature behind them momentarily forgotten.

“But  _you_ wouldn’t have been one of them!” All at once, the fight left Sam, and he lowered his voice. “That’s the difference, Cas. Yes, Dean would have slaughtered a thousand Gadreels to save me, but Gadreel was not a part of our family. Gadreel did not sacrifice everything for me. I- I wasn’t _in love_ with Gadreel.” The words cut sharper than Sam had intended, he regretted them as soon as they left his mouth.

They both fell silent, looking away from each other, and the room was so filled with longing and regret that the air felt close and thick. The demon began to laugh, reminding them of its presence. “It’s true, I admit it. You’re my favorite tool, Angel. So easily manipulated, you’d kill your own brother if I asked you pretty please, wouldn’t you? Oh, wait. That’s right, you already have. Multiple times, even. But come on, let’s face it, you’re just—“

Sam punched it.

The monster spat a mouthful of blood at the floor, the spaces between its teeth colored red when it grinned at Castiel. “Convenient.” It finished, chuckling as Castiel stalled Sam from hitting it again.

“Sam.” It was both a caution and a request. “Go.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He folded his arms across his chest stubbornly.

“It’s not safe for you to be in here while—“

“I said, no.”

“Don’t make me incapacitate you.” His tone was almost teasing, but they both knew that he would not hesitate to render Sam unconscious or transport him to Bermuda if he absolutely had to. He watched as Sam weighed his options and slowly accepted defeat.

The hunter shook his head again. “Damn it, Cas…” He strode forward suddenly and pulled Castiel into a hug.

The action surprised the angel and he tensed at first, interpreting it as a foolish attempt to overpower him. When he realized that this was Sam yielding, he hugged him back. They pulled apart, and Sam left the room without another word. The door screeched heavily on its hinges as it swung shut. Castiel stared at it for a moment, listening to Sam’s heartbeat on the other side as the hunter put his back to the wall and sank to the floor. To rest. To cry. To wait.

Too late Castiel realized Sam had also been saying goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel turned his attention back to the bound demon, ignoring the gnashing grief he felt in his chest at Sam’s departure and the realization that he may never see the man again. The creature watched him, eyes black and calculating, steeling itself for the contest that was about to take place between them. Its lips were still twisted into a grin, but this smile was dangerous, daring Castiel to make his move.

He stood before it, not entirely sure how to proceed. In theory, the process should be similar to smiting an enemy; in the way that demolishing a sandcastle with a wrecking ball is similar to excavating an ancient city with a sledgehammer. He reached forward and placed his left palm on its forehead. It jerked and growled beneath his hand, trying to dislodge it. Castiel used his other hand to try to still it, pressing its torso firmly to the back of the chair.

It was strong, and it fought hard against him. If not for the spelled ropes and demon trap hampering the creature’s power, Castiel did not know what the outcome of a confrontation between the two of them would be. If he commanded the might of Heaven, as he once had, they would not be so evenly matched. As it was, Castiel commanded no more than the power of what he was, he could only hope it would be enough. He sent a small wave of that power into the thrashing body and observed the results carefully. The evil retreated a fraction, but his triumph at that was stunted when he realized the damage his Grace had also done. It wasn’t catastrophic; if Dean had been Dean, he would have barely registered any damage had been done at all, but it meant that the amount of Grace required to purge him of the Mark would likely burn him from the inside out.

He pulled away for a moment to think, frowning. His Grace, much like a scalpel, could be used to heal as well as it could harm, depending on the way he wielded it, but it could not do both simultaneously. He could try, he supposed, but he did not think he would have enough power to actually remove the Mark if he was splitting his focus and reserves that way. If he had direct contact with the soul, he wouldn’t have to worry so much about the damage done to the body, but again, shoving a hand into a chest cavity requires a certain amount of healing as you go.

He looked back to the soul in question. The curse was surging in retaliation of the bit of reconnaissance his Grace had performed, and was pressing for complete control; trying to corrupt the last of Dean’s resistance before Castiel had a chance to perform a full on assault. Dean’s soul seemed to dim beneath the onslaught, and Castiel tried to hope it was only his imagination. He could almost feel Dean’s soul calling to him, looking to him for salvation, as it had in Hell. He wondered if it still knew him, the way it had in the months after he’d pulled Dean from the pit.

He’d been so much younger then, which was a strange thought, considering there were only a handful of years between then and now and he’d lived for an unfathomable amount of time altogether, but it rang of truth nonetheless. He’d been young and foolish, grabbing the beaming soul as soon as he was near enough, dragging it up out of the dark with strong, swift wingbeats without a thought of the consequences. Not that the consequences would have made a difference to him, he’d had his orders, after all, and he’d been nothing if not a good soldier.

Perhaps he should have known better—perhaps he _had_ known better— but in his effort to protect it from the screaming forces around them, he’d held the soul tight against himself—against his True Self, with no barrier of physical form for either of them. As he flew to the place he knew the Righteous Man’s body lie, he let the air of the earth blow away the stink of sulfur and death from his tattered wings, and basked in the satisfaction of victory, reveling in the quiet hum of energy that flowed uninhibited between them.

He remembered the awe he’d felt at that—that a thing so tainted and twisted by Hell could still resonate so beautifully with the Grace of Heaven, that it could still shine bright with goodness and hope. He remembered the curiosity that followed, about the man that was so important they’d laid siege to Hell to save him. He meticulously restored the body where it waited beneath the earth, showing the vessel of such wonder the respect it undoubtedly deserved. He remembered how his wings had hung low behind him when he pulled the soul away from himself, the sudden tightness in his chest confusing him. He let the sunlight kiss the undulating light he carried before he settled it safely within its vessel. Then he shouted to all the Host of Heaven that Dean Winchester had been saved. Their cheers washed over him, but did not ease the strange empty feeling within him.

Castiel hesitated then; his orders had been carried out and his mission accomplished, he should have immediately returned to his post in Heaven, yet he hadn’t. Looking back on it now, Castiel understood the shadows of emotions he hadn’t been able to recognize at the time. He’d thought it was some madness that had come upon him, some after effect of the intense battle and thrill of victory that made him reach through the soil and pine on impulse and leave a mark on the man there, but he knew better now.

It had been pride and selfishness. It had been a way to make it known that _he_ had been the one to raise the Righteous Man, a way to lay claim to that lovely pulse of light now that the mission was over. It was both a physical manifestation of the bond they had unwittingly forged in their frantic flight from Hell and his first true act of rebellion, though he didn’t recognize it as such at the time.

He’d left it, even as he felt disapproval filter through his connection with Heaven, even as he watched Dean’s face twist into fear and disgust at the first sight of it, he made no attempt to remove it. It wasn’t until much later, after many months fighting alongside humanity that he began to realize how _wrong_ it had been to make such a claim without asking to do so. Still, even with this knowledge, he’d left it intact, again out of selfishness. His mark amplified the bond between them, making it feel as if Dean’s soul was reaching out to him whenever he was near, and even with the multitude of Heaven sounding in his head, nothing made Castiel feel less _alone_ than being close to Dean. He began to crave that closeness, and more than once had Dean complaining about “personal space”.

It had taken Dean losing his brother—watching Sam fall into the depths of Lucifer’s Cage—before Castiel had the strength to remove it. Dean had lost everything; Sam, their father figure, even the half-brother he’d barely known, all in the name of saving the world. A world the _angels_ were supposed to cherish and protect, and instead had tried to turn to ash. Yet, what was Dean Winchester’s reward for his victory and sacrifice? Only Castiel. God had brought him back from death, but Castiel would have given his life a thousand times to take away the anguish emanating from Dean’s soul. He wanted to give it all back, but had to settle for things that were in his power, like resurrecting Bobby and returning Dean’s autonomy. When he healed Dean’s battered face and body, he also smoothed the skin of Dean’s shoulder where his handprint lay.

Even without Castiel’s mark, at first, Dean’s soul still brightened when the angel was near, though Castiel could no longer feel its call. As time went on, it responded less and less to him. By the time Castiel had fallen far enough from Heaven to recognize the ache in his chest for what it was, he had fallen far enough in love with Dean Winchester to know he would never go back. Of course, Dean’s soul didn’t so much as flicker in his presence by then. They were close, and sometimes Castiel could feel a prayer without words, a longing from Dean that made him think that, perhaps someday, they could be more than just brothers in arms.

Sam had said that Dean loved him, and perhaps that was true. Just the thought of it made his heart beat faster and on another plane, made his wings—mangled and weak as they were—flare. Still, there was no way to know how much influence the bond had on Dean, how much of what the man felt was unintended. Unwanted. He’d already taken too much liberty with Dean by inadvertently forging the bond and then by reinforcing it with the mark, and there were times that Dean was clearly uncomfortable with their closeness, so he left anything _more_ between them entirely up to Dean to pursue. It was only fair. Until such a time, he contented himself with the sheer miracle of Dean’s continued forgiveness and friendship.

In front of him, in the here and now, Dean’s soul visibly dimmed, and Castiel came back to attention. He’d let himself get lost in the memories, and Dean had suffered for it. The handprint Castiel had placed on him was long gone, but the bond between them was still there, maybe he could use it as a buffer, and as a direct line to Dean.  It wouldn’t be easy, nothing between them ever was, but it would be especially difficult considering their bond wasn’t exactly tangible. It was just a concept, really; a concept with side-effects. It wasn’t something he could reach out and bend to his will, but with any luck, what he needed now was one of the effects it boasted.

Castiel set his hand over Dean’s shoulder where he’d placed his mark years ago. It wasn’t necessary, the mark was gone, but it seemed fitting somehow. He tried to call upon the link between them, hoping it would shield Dean’s body from the worst of his burning Grace, which was akin to trying to summon the _idea_ of the needle that had been lost in the haystack, and then proceeding to try and thread it. He fed some Grace into Dean’s body as the demon growled and thrashed beneath him, and tried to guide it towards the tired soul. 

The evil of the Mark of Cain fled before his Grace, but he could feel its calculating malice. He knew it would not retreat far. It had sunk dark, twisted roots into the soul, casting shadows that seemed to squirm and slither across the shimmering light. Rage rose in Castiel at the sight. That such filth would _dare_ to mar the purity of Dean’s righteousness disgusted him. He wanted to tear the roots away, to burn them to nothing, but he could not. He had to be cautious. Had to be exact and meticulous. He could leave none of the curse’s darkness behind, but must not overwhelm Dean either. He set to work.

It was tedious and taxing, sweat beaded his brow before even an hour had passed, but he did not relent. The demon had gone quiet, for now, but he did not let down his guard. There was no way to tell if it was truly weakened or just biding its time. His grace unraveled the darkness that had woven itself into the fabric of Dean’s being; burning away one thread of it at a time.

He took a brief moment to survey his work, not quite satisfied with his progress. The physical damage was manageable, and that was a blessing, though he could not say if their bond was playing a role in that or not. Dean’s soul had yet to respond to his help, though perhaps it was not quite as dim as it had been. He carried on, even as his already damaged wings protested the slow depletion of his power. He would not lose faith in Dean.

When the soul finally stirred, a flood of relief forced a huff of breath from his vessel’s lungs. It reached out to his grace hesitantly, and then tugged at it almost hungrily. Castiel reveled in a closeness they hadn’t shared since their flight from Hell, letting the soul take as much of him as it wanted, unable to deny it, though his reserves were dangerously low. He let it wrap itself up in him, its exultation washing over him. There were tears on his face.

The Curse Mark pulsed suddenly, as if it had been waiting for this very moment, sending ravaging waves of evil power though Dean, and Castiel staggered back. He cursed his inattentiveness, and scrambled back to Dean reaching with both hands. He could feel Dean’s despair as his soul called to him. He didn’t hesitate, and poured more of himself into Dean’s shoulder, tilting the hunter’s face up with his other hand.

“Dean.” He called. _Come back to me._

* * *

His true self struggled to the surface, like trapped air working its way through hot tar, and for many moments he was only aware of the taste of blood and ash on his tongue. He chased consciousness, only able to capture it in small pieces before the whole of it slipped away. A brightness sliced through the thick and inky fog that undulated around his awareness. The light was sharp and white and dangerous, a flowing hot power that banished the darkness that was somehow a part of him. It was terrifying yet familiar as it burned him, as it scoured and polished and purified.

He reached for it, bathed in it. Pulled it in close and let it fill him with joy.

The darkness in him rallied all at once, a seemingly endless rage of power, choking him and ripping away the warm light. He scrambled after it, desperate and despairing.  _Please. No. I need you._ The light surged in retaliation, and he heard it call his name. The word was a promise and a prayer, safety and  _home,_ and he cast about in search of it, pulling himself up and away from the shadows.

Dean opened his eyes. 

His vision was blurred, and he blinked rapidly to clear it, giving his head a tiny shake to clear it as well. There was a warm hand on his cheek, long fingers wrapped towards the back of his neck. He tensed, confused, and his muscles pulled against the ropes that held him, bringing them to his attention. He tested them reflexively and tried desperately to make sense of his situation, eyes finally focusing on the face inches from his own, blue eyes glowing brightly with power. _Cas._

Dean relaxed a fraction, closing his eyes again, certain the angel would never hurt him, but still trying to puzzle out what was going on. He could feel the angel’s grace pouring into him, singing through his veins and making his head swim. Dean made himself look at the angel leaning over him, his face glistened with sweat and tears and the sight was like a punch to Dean’s gut, making him look away.  _Now what have I done?_ He wondered. When he found the courage to look again, a river of red flowed sluggishly from Castiel’s nose.

“Cas?” He croaked, both worried and confused. “What’re you…” The angel’s eyes glowed brighter, interrupting his question as a new wave of power flooded him; it sent him reeling. His blood boiled and his skin felt hot and tight, like he’d spent too much time in the sun. By the time the rush of grace ebbed enough for him to articulate, Castiel was panting and a second line of blood crept its way down his face.

“Cas. Stop.” He tugged at the ropes on his wrists. “I’m good, look, it’s me.” Castiel only shook his head stubbornly and pushed again with his grace. Dean tried to fight the crippling effect it seemed to have on him to no avail. He was left gasping as it faded again, and he looked at Castiel in disbelief. The angel was pale and shaking from the effort he was putting forth. It didn’t make any sense, couldn’t he see that Dean was okay now? Dean shook his head once more and spoke haltingly between pants. “Stop. I mean it. I’m me, Cas, I swear. You’re bleeding. You gotta stop. You’re gonna hurt yours--”

“Not… until… it’s gone.” He rasped and nodded towards Dean’s forearm where the mark marred his skin, raised and angry.

Another surge of energy—more powerful than the last—surprised Dean, and he felt as if he might tear apart, like the meat was being boiled from his bones. It cut off abruptly, and the angel fell to a knee in front of him, nearly between Dean’s legs, his irises ringed in red from broken blood vessels filling the whites of his eyes. Dean looked from the mark—now with fat twisting webs of red creeping across his skin—to Castiel, horrified.

“No.” He growled, angrily denying the terrifying thought that suddenly occurred to him. He tried to pull away, but Castiel only gave him another shot of grace, not as strong as the last, but enough to make him gasp and grit his teeth. “Stop.” He breathed, as soon as he was able. There was blood dripping onto the front of Castiel’s shirt and tie, and he dropped even lower, both knees to the floor now, but his hand never left Dean’s face. “Cas, don’t. Just stop. Take a break.”

The angel’s breaths were pained grunts, but his lips quirked upward at the heavy wisps of smoke trailing up from the Mark. “Can’t stop.” He slurred, his voice thick and wet with blood. He wanted to, everything he was screamed for him to stop, but he remembered how much easier it had been to reign in the darkness of the Mark the first time, and that had been with only borrowed Grace. The idea that it had built a resistance was terrifying, but possible, and he could not risk it.

“Cas, don—“ Another jolt. There was a panic rising in Dean, making the words tumble from him faster and faster. “Stop. Wait. That’s enough. Cas. Stop.” They stared at each other, both of them exhausted. “Please.” Castiel licked his lips and tasted iron. Dean’s eyes tracked the movement, and he wheezed. “If you keep going like this, you’re gonna kill yourself.” Castiel didn’t make any attempt to deny it, and Dean shook his head. “No.” Castiel looked away, but Dean dipped his chin to catch the angel’s eye again. “Not like this. I don’t want it like this. Not if it’s going to hurt you. Not if it’s going to  _kill_ you. You can’t—“ He swallowed. His voice was breaking, crumbling, and he hated it. “Not… Not if… I don’t want…I can’t…” He couldn’t make the words come out. He swallowed, and tried again, all but begging. “Not for me, Cas. Don’t do this because of me. Please. I-I need you. I… Cas, I--”

“Dean.” Castiel spoke softly, but his hushed tone halted the words hanging on Dean’s tongue.

“Please.” Dean said again, but knew now that it wouldn’t stop him. ”You deserve better, Cas. Please don’t do this. We—we can find a different way.” He knew Castiel could hear the lie for what it was. “You can’t—I’m not worth it, Cas, please.” Castiel stiffened at that, and grit his teeth, tightening his grip on Dean’s shoulder. “No, wait. No! Cas! Wait!” He was hit with a pulse that brightened the room and seemed to last an eternity; the force of it wrenching a guttural cry from his throat before knocking him unconscious.

As the last of his power faded, Castiel slumped forward, his hand slipping from Dean’s face to fall open against his chest, his head landing in Dean’s lap, eyes blank and empty.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean became aware of an incessant rumble of muffled words and quick, insistent slaps to his cheek. His brow creased in annoyance before he peeled his eyes open. He blinked sluggishly, trying to make his eyes focus on the figure in front of him, but they only slid back closed, so he let his head fall back again. There was a sudden pressure and a shushed tearing sound at one wrist and then the other before the ropes fell away. Had he been captured? It was hard to think. The slaps came again, sharper, and the words slowly became intelligible.

“… right. Dean. C’mon. Wake up, Dean. O-Open your eyes. You’re alright. Dean. Dean. Hey hey hey. Look at me. Hey…”

On and on and on. Dean tried to ignore it, tried to focus his mind instead. There was something important… something urgent. It niggled at the back of his mind, some half conceived thought that flitted past his awareness and made him restless. He had to get up, had to stop… something. He couldn’t remember, except that it was important, and that he didn’t have a lot of time. He tried again to open his eyes, willing them to come into focus.

“That’s it! Hey hey, look at me. Dean?” The voice was hurried and thick but hushed.

Dean brought a hand to his face and rubbed at his eyes. It was harder than it should have been, he felt weak and slow, like the air around him was the consistency of jello. He wondered if this was a nightmare, he could never seem to move fast enough in his dreams, and it would explain that “something’s not quite right” feeling he was having.

“Dean, c’mon, talk to me.”

His eyes finally slid into focus. His brother hovered worriedly in front of him.  _Sam._ Maybe Sam had stopped the thing, whatever it was. Or maybe he hadn’t, and that was why Dean couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together. Maybe it was Sam he was supposed to stop? It wouldn’t be the first time.

God, Sam was still talking. How could he keep that up for so long? Or maybe it had only been a few minutes? Keeping his eyes open was difficult, so he let them slide closed once more. There was a steady panic rising in him, building on the residual anxiety and adrenaline from before he’d been knocked out, and he tried to put a finger on it. Had Sam been hurt?

He tried to ask, “You okay, Sammy?” but what came out sounded more like, “’kay Sam?” Dean could hear both Sam’s relief and his exasperation when he huffed at that.

“Yeah. I’m—I’m okay. What about you? Are you hurt?”

Dean took a moment to think about it. Was he hurt? He was hurting, everywhere, like he’d fell down 10 flights of stairs and then been hit by a bus, all while on fire, but nowhere felt any worse than anywhere else. He took that as a good sign. “I’m fine.” He grumbled. He was afraid to ask, but couldn’t stop the words as they came out. “What happened? Did we…?” He let the question hang.  _Did we win? Did we make it? Did we fuck something up?_

Sam’s answer was hesitant, and his voice brittle. “Yeah. Uh, it’s gone. Far as I can tell. But…” Dean opened his eyes to look at his brother, who was having a hard time meeting his stare. Sam swallowed thickly and his lip trembled from the effort of trying to get the words out. “But… Cas…”

Everything came back to Dean in a rush of clarity so sharp and sudden that he didn’t at first notice how deeply it cut him. He followed Sam’s gaze to the body on the floor some feet away. Sam must have pulled the angel away and laid him there before cutting Dean free. Pain twisted at the core of Dean’s chest and blossomed, filling his lungs until there was no room for breath. His body surged towards the angel, seemingly of its own accord, but his muscles were weakened and his limbs were clumsy, and he tumbled from the chair to his knees.

Sam hurried to help him, but Dean shoved him away, awkwardly closing the distance between him and where Castiel lay. His face was turned away, but Dean could see the smears of blood on his tie—the memory of his blood dripping onto Dean’s jeans and spreading slowly along the lines of fabric flashed vividly. Dean reached out, hand shaking, and gently turned Castiel’s face towards them, not quite pulling his hand completely away. His ears were filled with the sound of quick, uneven rasps of breath, but didn’t realize they were his own until they were broken by a choked and gasping sob.

He grit his teeth and took a deep breath, pushing the pain away. This was what they did, him and Sam, they hunted, and fought, and buried friends. A small voice in the back of his mind protested,  _but Cas was more than that._ He pushed that away too.

Sam took a shaking breath and spoke, “Dean, I tried to—“

“Sam.” Dean interrupted him without looking at him, stalling his brother’s excuses and condolences. “Can you” He paused, and cleared his throat, “bring me a, uh, rag? A-and a basin?”

Sam hesitated, worried but wanting to help. “Yeah, of course.”

Dean didn’t move. He stayed there, kneeling and half reaching towards Castiel even after Sam had left the room. He let the numbness fill him up. Better to feel nothing than the awful, empty pain that threatened to overwhelm him. It took some time for him to work up the courage to touch him again, just the lightest brush of fingers across his temple, and then up, pushing back the little curls of hair that had become plastered to his forehead with sweat.

By the time Sam had returned and set the filled basin next to him, Dean had maneuvered himself so that the angel’s head lay in his lap. He scooped the rag out of the warm water, squeezed the water from it, and began using it to wipe the blood from Cas’ face.

Sam watched him carefully as he worked, grief and worry at war within him. He’d lost his best friend, but Dean’s blank face scared him. At the very least, he’d expected Dean to be angry, angry with  _him_ , specifically. He’d expected all those emotions that his brother kept buried and bottled to come roiling to the surface in an explosion of rage and grief and regret, not this sullen and determined calm. He was struggling to remove Castiel’s dress shirt.

“Dean, do you want me to—“

“No. I got it.” He murmured. When it finally came free, he folded it neatly and placed the tie on top of it. “Do you think the blood will come out of those?”

Sam picked the clothes up gingerly. “I’ll see what I can do.” Dean only nodded absently, and started wiping away stray specks of blood on the angel’s neck and chest. Sam chewed his lip, debating. “Dean?” His brother didn’t answer. “Should we… I mean, before the… the pyre—“

“We’re not burning him.”

“He was a hunter, Dean, he deserves—“

“I said, we’re  _not_ burning him.” His tone did not leave room for argument, and his hands had curled into fists.

Sam relented. “Yeah. Okay.” He wondered if he should just go, but he’d had a lot of time to think about it, sitting outside the door while Cas battled the Mark, and he wanted to do what was best. “Do… I mean, I think we should have some sort of service for him.”

Dean scoffed. “We are the only ones that care, Sam.” He was tenderly laying Castiel back onto the floor.

Watching his brother be so careful and attentive was heartbreaking. He had to swallow against the urge to cry and clear his throat. “Well, there’s Claire. She was important to Cas, and I think it might… give her closure.”

Dean stood slowly, his eyes lingering on the body on the floor. “She’s never really been a fan of me, Sam. How do you think she will feel about me when she knows that I…” He snapped his mouth shut and forced air into his lungs. He fought himself, and slowly regained control, sinking back into that fog of nothing.

“Dean, this isn’t your fault. Cas chose to—“

“Do whatever you want, Sam.” He grabbed the trench coat from where it hung on the back of a chair and laid it over Castiel, drawing it up to his chin. Dean could almost pretend that he was sleeping, except that angels didn’t sleep. He turned, and caught Sam watching him with pity. Dean looked away as he walked from the room, pausing at the door to add, “Just… don’t burn him.”

* * *

Sam wanted to sleep, more than anything. Instead he made calls. His emotions waxed and waned as he fought to keep a level head. Relief and guilt and grief. He called Charlie first. He broke down before he got out more than a “Hey, Charlie.” Charlie immediately assumed that something had happened to Dean, and it had taken him several minutes to get out what had actually happened. The calls got a little easier after that, not that there were many to make. Still, he needed to remind Dean that there were still people out there that cared about them. Jody, Garth, and then Claire. He’d saved her for last, unsure of how she’d take it. She’d surprised him with a resigned “Okay.” As if she’d been expecting the call. He started to tell her about his idea for some sort of service for Castiel, but she cut him off and said thanks, but that she didn’t need to see him.  

Sam shook his head as he ended the call and wondered if he was making a mistake. Maybe they should just bury the angel quietly like they did with most of their friends.

Sam shuffled towards his room and cast a longing look to his bed. As tempting as it was, Sam had to do just one more thing before he could escape into sleep. He went down the hall and knocked lightly on his brother’s bedroom door. There was no answer. He pushed the door open slowly, but the room was empty.

He quelled the panic that threatened, reminding himself that the Mark was gone, and went in search of Dean. He checked the kitchen and the garage, which were Dean’s usual haunts, he checked the library and then Cas’ room, but no Dean. Sam found him, eventually, in the dungeon, sitting on the floor next to Castiel’s body like he was standing guard. He was staring at nothing, with an uncapped, half empty bottle of whiskey at his feet. Sam wondered if he should say something, or if he should just let Dean have some time. He stood in the doorway for a while, debating.

“I’m going to be here when he comes back.” Dean spoke suddenly, snatching the bottle up.

Sam started. He hadn’t thought that Dean had even realized he was there. He tried to think of something to say.

“If he… I don’t want him to wake up alone, you know? All those times, before, when he was… when I thought…” He lifted a shoulder and dropped it. “He’ll come back.” He nodded slightly to himself before taking a long drink. Sam tried to keep the pity from his face and nodded, sinking heavily onto the floor next to his brother. Dean gave him a strange look. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting.” He said flatly.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Go to bed, man. You look beat. When’s the last time you slept?”

Sam yawned and looked thoughtful. “Depends on what time it is… day before yesterday?”

Dean tsked at that. “You need to go to bed.”

Sam shook his head. “Don’t be an idiot. I’m not going to have you sitting down here by yourself.”

“I’m  _fine_ , Sam.” Dean growled, and brought the whiskey to his lips.

“I know,” Sam said carefully, “but I’d still like to be here, you know, if he… if he wakes up.”

Dean could hear Sam’s lack of conviction. His brother didn’t believe that Cas was coming back, but Dean didn’t call him on it. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, and Dean took another swig from the bottle.


	4. Chapter 4

Some hours later, Sam was jolted awake by the sudden trill of his phone, the chiming melody echoing strangely in the hollow room. He rubbed his hand over his face and winced at the twinge in his neck from sleeping upright. He scrambled for his phone.

“Mornin’, sunshine.” Dean murmured, the quip falling through the crack in his voice.

Sam paused in his effort to retrieve his phone and looked carefully at his brother. Dean’s eyes were ringed in red, though whether from lack of sleep or from tears, Sam couldn’t be sure. Probably both. By the time Sam had finally managed his phone out of his pocket, it had fallen silent. It began ringing again almost instantly.

“Yeah?” He answered, unable to keep the exhaustion from his voice. Dean was staring at nothing, but Sam could tell he was listening. “Already? Alright. Yeah, just give me a minute to get up there. Thanks Jody.” He hung up the phone and stood up stiffly.

“Jody?” Dean asked, “She’s here?”

Confusion and accusation bled into the question, making Sam feel absurdly guilty. “Uh, yeah. I didn’t expect her already, but she must have hauled ass.”

“Why?”

Sam didn’t know if he meant why she’d hauled ass, why she was there, or why Sam had called her, but regardless his guilt flared quickly to anger. “She’s pretty much family, Dean, and—“

Dean scoffed, still staring at the wall. “She doesn’t even  _know_ him.”

“No, but she knows us,  _cares_ about us, and wanted to be here for the- the burial.” He stumbled over that last part, not sure if Dean had accepted Cas was gone while he’d been asleep or not, and he just couldn’t make himself say the word funeral. “I said earlier that we should do something for him, and you were okay with it, so I called our friends and asked them to come.”

Dean stared at him for a beat, uncomprehending. “What?” Realization dawned on him, and his face hardened. “Oh, you mean  _earlier_ ? When I was disoriented from being deep-fried in angel Grace and distracted by dealing with… With Cas?! Did it really seem like a good time for that shit?”

“There’s never a “good” time for something like this, Dean. What was I supposed to do?! Why are you giving me so much shit about it? I’m doing this for you too.”

Dean scoffed. “Doing what? Calling everyone we know so they can come here and—“

“That’s what people do when they lose somebody, Dean! They come together and support each other and we… We need that. Especially this time.”

Dean’s hands curled into fists. “He’s  _not_ …” He forced himself to take a deep breath. “He’s going to come back.” Sam’s mouth hung open with half formed objections, but Dean went on before he could protest. “This whole thing is a total waste of time, but whatever, nothing we can do about it now, she’s already here.” He stood up clumsily and gestured for Sam to lead the way. Sam bit his tongue, holding back the words he knew Dean didn’t want to hear. He hesitated for just a moment, debating, before letting it go and moving out of the room and up to the main floor.

* * *

 

Sam had barely cracked the heavy door of the bunker before Sheriff Jody Mills pushed her way inside and wrapped him up in a hug. Though she was considerably smaller than him, she somehow managed to wrap her arms comfortingly around his giant frame, and relief and grief warred within him. He felt his throat grow tight.

She spoke against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sam.” Sam could only nod. “How are you boys holding up?” She pushed herself far enough away from him to look at his face, he tried to clear his throat, but the rush of air only caught there and made it even harder to speak. She tsked and pulled him back in with a soft and sad “Oh.”

She noticed Dean at the bottom of the stairs and smiled sadly at him, leaving Sam with a pat on his arm and moving down the stairs towards Dean. He smiled back at her and pulled her in for a hug. She stood on the last step, making them almost of a height. “You okay?” She asked softly, but Dean was spared a reply, interrupted by a surprised gasp from the landing above.

“Oh my, would ya look at that. You boys got yourselves a proper hideout, don’t you now?”

“Donna?” Sam asked in surprise.

The blonde was carrying a few bags, but set them down so she could give Sam a proper hug. “Hope you don’t mind me tagging along. When Jodio here told me what happened and that she was coming down, I couldn’t just sit by and do nothing, now could I? After everything you boys have done… It’s too bad we only see you in hard times, but I s’pose that’s the nature of it. We’re here for anything ya might need.” She picked up the bags at her feet once again and started down the stairs, Sam following her down. “We brought a few things, figured we’d stock your freezer with lasagna and the like so you boys don’t have to worry about cooking for a while.”

 Jody turned back to Dean and studied him carefully. “Anything you need, you let us know, alright?” It was more a stern warning than a request, but she softened a fraction when she spoke again. “I know there’s not really anything to say to make you feel any better, but I wish there was. I wish that I had known him.”

Dean flashed her a tenuous smile. “Well, stick around.” He took some of the bags out of Donna’s hand and offered to show her to the kitchen.

Jody and Sam watched them go. When they were out of sight, Jody turned to Sam, “Is it just me, or is he taking this a hell of a lot better than… anybody ever?”

Sam sighed. “He is convinced that Cas will come back.”

Her eyes went wide as she processed that, and then she grew thoughtful. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but isn’t that kind of a possibility?”

“Well, I mean, we’re no strangers to cheating death, and neither is Cas, but…” Sam looked away. “The other times he’s come back, it was almost immediate. I mean, except for Purgatory, but he hadn’t  _actually_ died, it was more like he’d just been banished there.” Guilt welled in him as he spoke, as if speaking the words out loud would somehow make them true. “I… I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Sam gave Jody a cursory tour of the bunker, showed her which rooms were available, and warned her not to go poking through any of the rooms that he and Dean hadn’t yet been through. They had stumbled upon too many dangerous and cursed objects while clearing their own rooms out, and he didn’t want anyone to get hurt. She’d agreed, and then insisted he stop trying to be a gracious host, and get his ass to bed. He couldn’t argue—didn’t even want to, so he handed her his phone and the bloodstained shirt and tie, warned her about the other incoming guests, and took his ass to bed. He had a vague notion to go check on Dean, but sleep hit him before he could do anything about it.

* * *

 

Dean took Donna to the kitchen and helped her put the groceries she’d brought away. Neither of them spoke, really, aside from small exchanges regarding the pantry. It was a little awkward, but she didn’t look at him like she was expecting a breakdown, which he appreciated. And, yeah, okay, when he’d first seen Cas lying still and bloody like that, he’d been…  _devastated_ , a small voice in his mind supplied, but after he’d had a little while to get over the shock or whatever, he’d been fine.

Of course he was  _worried._ Who knew what trouble Cas was going to get in for this? He was probably stuck in Heaven, filling out paperwork or something just as asinine, because those dicks up there get off on that sort of thing, but he’d make his way back. He always came back. That train of thought made him want to go check, even though he knew Cas would probably appear randomly behind him as soon as the angel was able. Still, Dean reasoned, he might be weakened after tangling with the Mark, or he could even be human.  _God, what if he’s down there, and too weak to do anything? I shouldn’t have left him._

He excused himself with some line about being tired, and if Donna suspected otherwise, she didn’t say. He headed to the dungeon, moving faster as he went until he was sprinting down the hall, his mind supplying him with images of Castiel trying to stand, or calling out for help, or choking on congealed blood, too weak to turn his head. He skidded into the room, but Cas’s vessel lay unmoved, exactly as it had been when he’d left the room earlier.

He checked for a pulse anyway.

Disappointment and resentment shook the foundations of his carefully constructed defenses, and he clenched his jaw against the force of them. For just a moment, he couldn’t help but wonder,  _what if he’s really gone?_ The question was a knife that carved out pieces of him and left him hollow. He flung the thought away, and instead made himself wonder why he wasn’t back  _yet._

_What if Heaven doesn’t let him come back?_ That was another terrifying thought, but he immediately decided that he’d find a way. And maybe… He thought of Hannah, the angel Cas had been helping sort out the rogue angel problem. She’d never been Dean’s biggest fan, had even called for his execution once, but she’d seemed… fond of Cas. He did his best to ignore the pang of jealousy at that thought, and figured that she would help Cas, if she could. She was on the inside, she could at least give Dean a status report. Not that there was any guarantee that she  _would_ , but it was probably the best shot he had at finding out what was taking so long. He grit his teeth, swallowed his pride, looked to the ceiling, and prayed.

_Hannah?_ He soldiered through the awkward shame he felt.  _You, uh, listening? It’s Dean. Winchester._ He waited, Cas would usually show up at that point, but there was no immediate sound of wings, so he continued.  _Anyway, I know you and me don’t really… get along or whatever, but I don’t know where else to—_ He took a deep breath and rubbed a hand roughly over his face.  _Cas needs help, I think. It’s just, he’s not back yet, and I… I want to know he’s okay, at least. Could you, um, poke around up there or something? If you don’t want to do me the favor, you can do it for Cas. He likes this vessel, he’s going to want it back, and it’s not getting any fresher, you know?_ Dean waited a beat, glancing around the room expectantly.  _Amen?_

* * *

When Sam woke, hours later, it took several seconds for the memory of Castiel’s sacrifice to register. When it did, every part of him wanted to slip back into unconsciousness, to forget the pain and regret, but his limbs were restless and the emptiness in his chest churned until he couldn’t take it any longer. He got out of bed and followed the smell of home cooked meal to the kitchen. The rest of their friends had arrived while he slept, and they were all there together.

There was a moment before anyone noticed him at the door, and he took it to adjust to the sight of them all being so  _ordinary._ Donna absently stirred the big bowl in her hands as she paced back and forth, looking for something. Jody followed along behind her, sweeping the floor and snarking about at least  _trying_ to keep it in the bowl. Charlie sat across from Garth, reliving the time she’d spent in Oz in hushed but excited tones. Claire leaned against the counter, arms crossed and quiet, lost in thought. He hadn’t expected her to come, but he’d hoped.

Donna lit up when she saw him. “Well now, look who’s up!” The room went quiet as everyone turned toward the door where he stood. He fumbled for a response.

He was interrupted by the screech of a pushed out chair and then Garth was hugging him fiercely. Despite the ache that went on and on within him, Sam couldn’t help but crack a small smile. Garth pulled away and offered condolences with teary eyes, and Sam could only nod as Charlie took Garth’s place. “How are you doing?” she asked softly, stepping back to read his face.

He tried to answer, but the words stuck at the back of his throat. He shrugged. An uncomfortable silence followed, everyone wanting to have the words to make it okay, but no one knowing what words would. Finally, Donna stepped in, wearing her perpetual smile. “You hungry? The lasagna’s about done, we’re just waiting for it to brown a bit on top.”

Sam sagged in relief at the topic change. “I’m starving.” Jody seemed pleased with his response, and went back to sweeping, giving his shoulder a small pat as she passed him. He frowned. “Jody, you don’t have to do—“

“I know.” She didn’t even pause.

“No, really—“

“Sam Winchester.” She said sternly, “I am here to help you boys with whatever you need, and right now, your kitchen needs to be swept, so I’m sweeping it.” She gave Donna an exasperated look. “And I’d be done already if someone didn’t keep dropping bits all over!”

“Ah jeez, my bad. I just can’t seem to find where I put the… Ah! There it is!” She held up a stick of butter triumphantly. She unwrapped it and dropped it into the bowl before resuming her mixing. The oven timer dinged, and Garth hopped up to pull the pan from the oven.

Sam’s eyes met Claire’s. “Hey.” He offered, unsure. She didn’t respond, but didn’t look away either. “I’m glad you came.”

She half-heartedly rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I had anywhere else to be.”

Sam nodded sadly. “Do you… want to know anything? About how it—“

“Nope.” She pushed away from the counter with an air of exasperation, and left the room.

Sam looked imploringly at the group before making to go after her. Jody stopped him before he got far. “She just needs some time.” Sam looked uncertainly at the door, but nodded. “Were they close?” Jody asked carefully.

He paused, unsure how much was his to share. “This past year, Cas sort of made a point of looking out for her, but I don’t know a lot of what went on between them. Cas’ vessel was Claire’s father.” Jody’s eyebrows jumped at that. “It’s… complicated.”

“I would say so. Maybe I should have brought Alex, give her someone her age to talk to, that can commiserate with the whole supernatural parent thing. If I’d have known…” She shrugged sadly.

Charlie popped up at his elbow with a plate piled with food. “Here you go, fresh from the oven.” When Sam didn’t immediately move to take it from her, she leaned in conspiratorially, “Seriously, you’re going to want to get in on this. That woman can cook.”

Sam took the plate and sat down at the table while Charlie and Jody made a plates of their own. Garth politely declined; it was only then that Sam remembered he was recently werewolf and he wondered if he had told the others or if he was keeping it to himself. Donna was still bustling around the kitchen, too distracted to stop and eat at the moment. She started peeling peaches. He watched her for a minute before taking a bite. Charlie had been right, it was fantastic. For some reason, it made him feel like he was going to cry.

Charlie took a big bite and groaned. “This is amazing." She turned to Donna. "You’re amazing.” Donna blushed and waved the compliments off. “What are you making now?”

Donna nodded to the bowl on the counter. “My world famous peach-raspberry crumble. Well, county famous, anyway. It’s best with a little vanilla ice cream on the side.” She turned to Sam. “Jod here told me you boys love pie, but the one thing I can’t get right for the life of me is a pie crust. Every time I try, I get so frustrated I end up scraping the whole thing! I figure a crumble’s pretty darn close, right?”

Sam nodded, his throat once again too thick for words. Something about having them all in the same place at the same time, just enjoying a meal together, was a bit overwhelming. Charlie noticed, and put her hand on his. His eyes pricked with tears and he took a shuddering breath. “Why don’t we ever do this?” It came out sharper than he intended. “Why don’t we come together like this when it’s not life or death?! Why does everything have to—We should have done this… before, and then…” His tirade faded. “Then you would all have known him.”

Garth spoke up first. “You’re right, man. We will.”

“Yeah,” Charlie added, “you know I’m always down to hang out with you guys.”

“Hey, all I need is a little notice, and I’ll be here.”

Sam sniffed and nodded. There was a beat of silence, and then Donna set down the peach she had been peeling, and wiped her hands on a towel. “Would it be better if I try to make pie?” Sam couldn’t tell if she was being serious or not, but a laugh bubbled out of him.

 “No, a crumble will be just fine. It’s Dean that’s pie crazy anyway. Speaking of, has he… I mean, have you guys seen him since you got here, or…?” The smiles slipped from their faces, and all at once the lighter mood evaporated. The four of them shared uneasy looks as Sam grew anxious waiting for a response. “What?”

“He went to bed, just after you did.” Jody finally said. “I checked on you both, but when I stuck my head in his room, he wasn’t there.” She held up her hands to stall Sam’s reaction. “We found him, he was, um, downstairs.”  _With Cas._ Sam thought. “I tried to get him to come back up, but he was obstinate about it.”

“We  _all_ tried.” Garth sad sadly.

“I didn’t.” Claire said from the doorway, either hunger or curiosity bringing her back. Jody threw her a look, and she shrugged.

Sam pushed his chair back to go find his brother. Garth shook his head. “He’ll be alright for a few more minutes, you should finish your dinner.”

Sam looked down at the food he’d barely touched, but his stomach churned with more remorse. He’d been up here with food and the comfort of friends while Dean sat in that cold room, alone and miserable. Why hadn’t he asked about him right away? He shook his head. “I’m not really hungry anymore.” He stood up and strode purposely from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam found his brother, amid a scattering of empty liquor bottles, on the floor in the dungeon. He was sitting against the wall, head hanging to his chest, and at first Sam thought he’d passed out, but as he approached Dean’s head rolled to one side and he peered up at Sam. He uttered a string of incoherent mumbles.

Sam bit his tongue and tried not to pity him. “Alright, c’mon. Up you get.” He tried to sling one of Dean’s arms over his shoulder, but Dean fought him.

“Gerroff me. No. Gotta wait fer Cas.” He pushed Sam away.

Sam was about to try knocking some sense into him when Dean groaned pitifully. It was a miracle Sam got the garbage can under Dean’s chin it time. He heaved into the bucket again and again, gasping and choking on vomit and garbled words. Sam rubbed Dean’s back and sighed, at least he hadn’t eaten much or he’d be wanting to puke as well.

Dean’s gagging subsided, and he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and leaned back against the wall. His breathing was still ragged when he spoke, his words still slurred, “Gotta stay.”

Sam grit his teeth, trying to reign in his anger, but he didn’t do very well. This was the most drunk he’d ever seen Dean, and he was worried. “What, Dean?! You think, that if he comes back,  _this_ is the first thing he wants to see?! You sitting at his feet, piss drunk and puking all over yourself?”

Dean blinked slowly, and then his eyes grew big before he covered his face with his hands. “No.” The word was muffled against his hands. He groaned. “Cas… he don’t… he wants to see somethin’ else. Yer right.” He nodded, and continued to do so for longer than necessary. The alcohol exaggerated his movements, and he rolled on his side in an attempt to get up off the floor.

Sam quickly moved to help him, relieved. “Okay. Let’s get you to bed then.”

Sam got Dean up the stairs and to his bed without too much hassle, Dean spent the entire time mumbling unintelligibly into Sam’s shoulder, and didn’t put up anymore resistance to relocating. Sam got him some water, and some aspirin and set it on the stand next to his bed. Dean tried to grab him as he moved away, but only succeeded in grazing Sam’s arm. He mumbled words into his pillow that turned into a broken keening.

“What?” Sam said, trying to be understanding but mostly just feeling exasperated.

“I f—“ He hiccupped and then groaned. “I fucked it up, Sam.”

“You didn’t—“ He sighed. “Just go to sleep, and we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

“No. ‘m stupid. Now he’s… He’s gonna come back, and ‘m jus’ gonna be shitty passed out. Like I don’ even—like I don’ even care. ‘Cause—and all ‘cause I didn’  _think_ . ‘N now ‘m gonna miss it. Don’ wanna miss ‘im Sam. ‘m so stupid.”

“Dean—“ Sam tried, but Dean ignored him.

“But I jus’ kep’ on drinkin’. ‘Cause tha’s what I do when it hurts, I jus’ drink and drink and drink.” He tried again to grab for Sam, but didn’t even come close. “You gotta tell ‘im, if he wakes up and ‘m still stupid, you hafta tell him that ‘m sorry for bein’ stupid and drunk and pukin’ by his feet. Tell ‘im ‘m really sorry.”

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, and made himself nod. “O-okay Dean, I’ll tell him. Go to bed now, okay?”

Dean settled, nodding faintly, and Sam turned to leave the room. He almost made it.

“No! Sammy, wait!”

There was panic in Dean’s voice, and that hurt Sam more than seeing him drink himself into a stupor. He went quickly back to the bedside. “What? What is it?”

“Wait. Don’… Don’ tell ‘im. ‘m so  _stupid._ I gotta do it, I gotta tell ‘im. I never tell ‘im nothin’ ‘cept the stuff that’s not ‘mportant… I wanna tell ‘im stuff that  _matters_ … He d’serves t’ know stuff… all the…”

Sam couldn’t make out the rest, Dean had grown less coherent throughout the tirade, and Sam was pretty sure he was mostly asleep. He backed quietly towards the door.

“Sam?”

Sam cursed. “Yeah?”

“Ya gotta let me tell ‘im.”

“Alright, I promise, you can tell him.”

There was a pause, and then, “Thanks Sammy.”

“Go to sleep, Dean.” Sam backed out and closed the door.

* * *

 

Dean was hiding. It was childish, he knew, but it was true. He’d slipped into consciousness some time ago, head pounding and mouth like sandpaper, but he’d been too ashamed to leave his room; apart from slipping to the bathroom and back, thankfully without meeting anyone along the way. Now he lay on his bed and feigned sleep whenever his door creaked open. He knew it couldn’t last, but he couldn’t yet bring himself to face his family. Not after the way he’d acted yesterday. He winced at the memory, fuzzy as it was, of him yelling and cursing at them for trying to get him to come upstairs. He didn’t even remember how he got back to his room, but he imagined it hadn’t been pretty.

He wished they’d just left him down there. Not only did he deserve it, but at least then he’d know if Cas had… He shook his head. They would have woken him if Cas was back. Unless Cas told them to let him sleep. No. Cas would have been sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him, like a creep. Unless Cas was mad at Dean, for not being there when he’d woken up. He went back and forth like that, trying to dredge up the courage to just go see for himself, but the idea of finding out Cas was still… gone, that was terrifying. As long as Dean didn’t leave his room, as long as he didn’t know, neither possibility was true. Like a horrible backwards recreation of Schrodinger’s experiment, but with higher stakes.

There was a light knock and his door pushed quickly inwards. Dean immediately closed his eyes and controlled his breathing. There was an exasperated sigh, and then one of the last voices he’d have expected. “I know you’re faking, and they’re all really worried, so just get up already before they put you on suicide watch or something.”

He looked up at the girl in his doorway, a mixture of disbelief and guilt on his face. “Claire?” She rolled her eyes at him, and he sat up slowly. “Last I checked, you hated me. So, why do you care?” He asked, genuinely curious.

She crossed her arms across her body and looked away when she shrugged. “I don’t. It’s… I…” She huffed, and waved her hand in dismissal. “Whatever. Look, all your friends are mother hen-ing me to death. Jodi and Donna keep trying to feed me, that Garth guy is huggy and smells like dog, and Sam keeps wanting me to talk about my feelings. I swear I can’t get two minutes to myself. So, get up,” she finished, a bit lamely, “it’s your turn.”

Dean couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Yeah, that all sounds about right.” He hesitated, knowing the answer but having to ask anyway. “So, Cas hasn’t…?” She shook her head. Even though he’d expected it, his stomach twisted anxiously. “Right. Well, I guess it’s only fair if I suffer some mollycoddling myself, huh?” She gave him a tiny smile before she remembered herself. Her carefully neutral expression reminded Dean that she despised him, and he nodded awkwardly to himself, trying to quell the disappointment at the reminder. He didn’t have any right to expect her to ever regard him positively. This entire conversation was more than he deserved from her, after everything he’d done. “I’ll uh, be out in a little bit, okay?”

She nodded and made to leave, but stopped short of the door. “Do…” She paused and turned to look at him. “Do you really believe he’ll come back to life?”

Dean could hear the disbelief at war with the hope in her voice. He gave her an honest answer. “Yes, I do. It sounds crazy, and there’s never any guarantee, but, me and Cas? We’ll find each other. I-It’s kind of what we do.”

She nodded again, but her face was unreadable when she answered. “So I gather.”

After she left, Dean paced the length of his room, trying to gather enough courage to face the people that cared about him. It shouldn’t be such a challenge, but between Cas not being back yet and Dean’s behavior the night before, he was bound to be met with varying shades of anger and pity. Neither of which being something Dean wanted to be on the receiving end of. Especially not from the people he considered his family.

Eventually, he chided himself for being a wuss, and made himself walk out of his room. He nearly ran straight into Jody as he turned into the hall. “Whoa.” She said lightly as she took hurried steps backwards to avoid a collision. “It’s good to see you up! I was just coming to check on you.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m up.” He shuffled a bit awkwardly before an apology tumbled from him. “Look, Jody, about last night, I didn’t mean—“

She waved his words away. “Dean…”

“I shouldn’t have—“

“Hush. Please don’t apologize. I get it. I’ve been there. I lost my son,  _twice,_ and grief makes you do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do. We just want you to be okay. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I-I’m fine.” She looked at him disbelievingly, and he changed the subject. “Hungry though, Donna mentioned lasagna?”

Dean could tell that Jody could see through him, and she looked as though she might press the issue before deciding against it. She linked her arm in his. “Oh yeah. She’s put so much lasagna in your freezer, you boys are going to be eating baked noodles until the next apocalypse. C’mon, I’ll warm some up for you.”

He could hear the steady murmur of their voices as they neared the kitchen, and Dean felt a strong urge to turn around and go the other way. He’d faced monsters and hellhounds, killed Gods without flinching, been to Heaven and Hell, but for some unfathomable reason, the idea of facing the people in that room made his heart slam wildly in his chest.

Jody gently squeezed his arm as if intuiting his sudden reluctance. He made himself step over the threshold without hesitating. Slowly letting himself exhale when whatever cataclysmic event he’d been expecting didn’t happen. Jody patted his arm encouragingly and went to the fridge. Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes at himself for being ridiculous. These were his friends.

He tried to not look awkward as he glanced around the kitchen. They were packed into the room, all six of them, like they had known this was where he would go and were waiting for him. Before he could think of anything to say, he had an armful of Charlie. “Oh Dean, I’m so sorry.” She said into his chest before pulling back and punching him as hard as she could in the arm and then immediately brought him back in for another hug. She lowered her voice so only he could hear her. “I don’t ever want to see you like that again… okay?”

Dean swallowed and finally genuinely hugged her back. “Okay.”

Donna and Garth’s greetings were far more subdued, but no less heartfelt. Claire nodded in his direction, and Sam sent him what was probably supposed to be an encouraging smile, but what looked more like a grimace. Jody set a plate for him at the table and he moved to take a seat. Before he reached the table, he heard it. That soft  _whup-whuff_ of wingbeats that he had been waiting for. Dean whirled towards the sound, but faced a stranger.

His hair and beard were black, his dark eyes set among angled nose and rounded cheek bones, subtly handsome, and though Dean had never seen him before, something about him felt familiar. The angel blinked at the group of people who were staring. “Hello.” He said softly.

“Cas?” Dean all but pleaded, and hated how much broken hope bled into his voice.

Thick eyebrows furrowed and the angel tilted his head a fraction to the side, confused. Then all at once, straightened with understanding. “Oh. No. I’m sorry. I am not Castiel.” He smiled sadly. ”I forget that you do not see our true faces. We have met before, though I wore a different, female vessel at that time.” He looked down at himself, considering. “Which, I think I may have preferred.” The angel shrugged, and then fidgeted, which was uncommon for angels, glancing at the others in the room before continuing. “I have come in answer of your prayer.”

“Hannah?!” Dean asked, surprised. She nodded, and Dean advanced. “Well, where is he? Did you see him? Is he okay? How long ‘til he comes back?”

Hannah looked away from him before answering. “I do not have the answers that you are hoping for. Castiel is… not in Heaven.”

Cold dread slipped down Dean’s throat and settled into his gut, and he advanced on the angel, stopping just short of her. “Then where is he?” He demanded.

She showed no sign of fear at his aggression, only pity. “He’s gone. I’m sorry Dean, but Castiel is—“

“NO.” Dean slammed his fist down on the counter, and everyone in the room jumped. “He’s not.” His chest felt hot and tight as he glared at Hannah, but she did not look away. “He’s _not._ ” He spit again before storming out of the room. They all winced in unison again at the echo of a slammed door.

Hannah turned back to the room and stared at the people in it imploringly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him, but I couldn’t lie.”

Sam hurried forward and waved away her apology. “No, don’t. I-it’s better this way? I don’t think he ever would have accepted it, otherwise. Honestly? He still might not. Dean’s a little hard headed.” Hannah nodded slowly, still unsure. Sam went on, “Actually, we’re going to have a f-funeral for him soon… You’re welcome to stay.”

Hannah’s brows came together again as she considered the offer, and she spoke almost carefully when she answered. “That… is not something angels are accustomed to, as Heaven did not celebrate any angel’s individual life or death…”

Sam frowned, but nodded in understanding. “You don’t have—“

“But.” She said, interrupting him. “For my brother Castiel, I will make the exception, for he was an exceptional being and deserving of celebration.”

Sam smiled sadly. “Yes he was.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was only a short time later that Sam found himself knocking softly on his brother’s bedroom door. Dean didn’t answer, but Sam pushed the door open anyway. His brother was seated on the floor, surrounded by thick volumes with yellowed pages. One was propped open on his lap, but he didn’t seem to be reading it.

Sam cleared his throat. “We’re, uh, getting ready to um, start. You should come.”

“He’s not gone, Sam.” He said without looking up, turning the page with more force than necessary. “I’m gonna find him, and I’m gonna bring him back.”

Sam sighed. “Dean—“

“No, Sam. I can’t explain it, but I feel it. It’s fucking crazy, but I can feel  _him._ Like he’s… Like he’s just out of my periphery. Like he never left.” His tone wavered dangerously at the end, and he took a deep breath to steady it.

Sam sat heavily on Dean’s bed. “Okay. I hear you, but I need you to hear me, alright? I know you think Cas is going to come back,” he held his hands up to stop Dean’s protest before it started, “and I  _want_ you to be right. More than anything, okay? But, we can’t just have a body in our basement forever. And, look, say we do this, and Cas does come back… I will accept every “I told you so” you want to give me for the rest of our lives. I will do it  _happily_ . But… If Cas  _doesn’t_ come back? You’re going to wish you had been there.” Sam waited, but Dean didn’t respond. “Just… think about it, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Sam gave him a disbelieving look, but nodded and then left the room.

So, Dean thought about it. Mostly, he thought about how Sam was a fool for going to such lengths. Not that Cas didn’t deserve it, but when someone bit the dust, hunters didn’t order flowers and sit around and cry about it. They burned and drank and pushed it away. The whole funeral idea was ridiculous. Forget going to the damn thing, that felt like giving up, like he was admitting that Cas was gone forever, which was intolerable.

Then again… Sam might have a point.  _If_ Dean couldn’t find a way to get him back… He shook his head. And it’s not like he had to get up and give a speech or anything, he could just… watch. Maybe he would tape it, and then him and Cas could tease Sam about it later. Except Cas would probably think it was sweet. Dean sighed, and then stood up, setting aside the book he’d been failing to read.

He moved down the hall quietly, not quite sneaking, but not really wanting to draw attention to himself either. He expected to find them all again in the kitchen, but it was empty. He took the opportunity to pull his plate out of the fridge and reheat it, he couldn’t even remember the last time he ate, and the solace of the empty kitchen was an opportunity too good to pass up. He ate quickly, making a note to ask Donna for her recipe, and then set his dish in the sink before setting out to find everybody.

He eventually found them outside, a short distance from the bunker. Castiel’s vessel lay on a sheet next to a dark hole in the earth. Dean looked away. Dean started when a voice spoke from right beside him.

“It’s weird.” Claire stood with her arms wrapped around her torso and stared at the body.  _Her father’s body_ Dean reminded himself. She shrugged. “I thought, maybe, it’d give me some sort of closure. I thought without Castiel in there, he would look like my dad again, but… he doesn’t.” Dean didn’t know what to say, so he stayed quiet. Claire was quiet too, for a long time. “It was easier when I hated him.”

“Cas?” Dean asked, confused.

Claire nodded. “It was easier when I hated you, too.” Then she walked away without another word, and left Dean to contemplate her words.

Dean was not alone for long. Charlie walked towards him and then stood awkwardly beside him before leaning in conspiratorially. “I saw you talking with Claire, how did that go?”

“Good, I think. I guess she doesn’t hate me?” He said it as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Good.” She said carefully, “That’s good then.”

Dean looked at her suspiciously. “What did you do?”

“Nothing! … I mean, apart from hurrying along the inevitable, she would have found them eventually.” She chuckled nervously. “You know, kids these days and the internet…”

“Charlie…” He warned.

“Yeah, okay, well, I  _might_ have pointed her towards a certain book series… About a couple of brothers…”

“A book? Wha—Charlie.” His tone became warning as soon as he realized what she meant. “You didn’t.”

She held up her hands placatingly. “Just… a couple of the more, um, pertinent books. I thought it might help her gain a little perspective and not be so…  _rawr_ all the time.”

Dean groaned. “Well, it worked, I guess. God, I hope she doesn’t read them all.” He winced at the thought. “Are you sure there’s no way to completely destroy those?”

She shook her head and then nudged him playfully. “Sorry. What happens on the internet, stays on the internet.” She smiled up at him when he sighed, and then turned serious. “Are you okay?”

Dean determinedly did not glance at the body a few feet away and looked down at her carefully before answering. “Yeah. I’m… I’m good.”

“I just mean, after what Hannah said, I thought—“

Dean stiffened, and his face turned angry. “Hannah is wrong.”

“I didn’t mean to—“

He looked around, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. “Sam’s an idiot, and I’m an idiot for coming out here. This whole thing is pointless.” Without another word he turned to go back inside. He was so focused on getting back the bunker that he nearly slammed into Hannah as he— _she_ crossed Dean’s path.

Dean glared. “What are  _you_ still doing here?”

She regarded him with a furrowed brow. “I simply wished to attend.”

“Why?” He challenged. “I didn’t figure angels gave a crap.”

“Angels  _grieve_ , Dean. None of us relish the loss of life, and there is… a kinship between us. My time away from Heaven taught me many things, and though I only scratched the surface of true human emotion, Castiel and I were… close, I suppose. Learning of his sacrifice was difficult, though truly, it was no less than I expected.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He ground his teeth in suppressed anger.

She seemed to truly consider her words before answering. “After Castiel pulled you from Hell, he began to love humankind, the first among us to truly do so, even though God had commanded it of us eons ago. It didn’t take long before it was obvious that the only thing he cherished more than mankind, was you. It came as no surprise that he would give his life to rid your world of the evil of the Mark. With one act, he saved the two things he cherished most.” Dean’s breath caught in his throat at the surety of her words. He couldn’t find any words of his own, and she glanced towards the body a short distance away. “I must admit I have always found the worship of empty vessels one of the odder human customs, but I thought after my time on Earth, it might… bring a measure of comfort.” She looked away, a shadow of sadness on her face.

Only then did Dean realize that she felt Castiel’s absence too. He cleared his throat and made an attempt at civility. “Does it? Bring any comfort?”

“No,” She shook her head like she thought she was being silly, “but I understand now why it may be soothing for others. That is not my brother lying there, and though the vessel was truly his at the end, it is not the face I saw when I looked upon him.” She turned and stared at Dean. “Seeing you, however, has been somewhat of a comfort.”

“Me?!” He scoffed, confused and disbelieving.

She smiled softly. “Yes. Your soul wears his grace like armor.”

Dean’s head snapped up at that. “His—“  

Hannah held up her hands to stay any wild ideas, and she cautioned him as if she could hear what he was thinking. “No, Dean. It is not enough to bring him back, and only a shadow of what he was, but it sings the same, and it eased my grief that this small part of him continues.” Her face grew sad once more. “Though, it too will fade over time.”

Dean was at war with himself. He could feel his conviction that Cas would be ultimately okay faltering. He wanted to run. He wanted to know more. He wanted to cry. He wanted to take Hannah by the shoulders and shake her. His breath was quickening, and he couldn’t control it. “Where—“ He cleared his throat. “What happens to you? Angels, I mean, when you…” He let the question hang, unable to speak the word that finished it.

Hannah could see his defenses crumbling, and she considered not answering him. Castiel would want her to be kind to him, but was it kinder to be honest or to not say anything at all? Eventually, she answered him. “We do not know; our afterlife is as shrouded in mystery for us as yours is for most of your kind. Many of us believe that there is no place for us, that when we die our life force is redistributed in new generations.”

“Like reincarnation?” He asked quickly.

 “In a way, I suppose, but it is only a popular theory, and we have not had young ones for a very long time.”

“But, you’re saying someday, Cas might--”

She could see him looking for hope, looking for a loophole, and it twisted her newfound emotions into a shape she couldn’t yet name. She didn’t like it. “No. I know what you are hoping for me to tell you, but I will not be dishonest, even to spare your feelings. The energy that Castiel contained within himself was not what made him Castiel, and if it were to be used for new life, it would be just that,  _new life_ .” She made sure to stress her words, so it was clear.

“So he what, just… doesn’t exist anymore?!” He shouted, and the people gathered there turned to look at him. He could feel their eyes.

Hannah tried to explain, as gently as she could. “Everything that is left of Castiel is wrapped around your soul. I am sorry, that I can’t offer you more than that. A lot of us believed that Castiel would rise again, as he has so many times before, but it seems whatever will of our Father’s that he had been tasked with has been carried out. His work is done.”

Dean went rigid, his hands curled tightly into fists, and with each word he shouted he moved closer, until he was towering over her. “No! Cas was-  _is_ not just a pawn on your dad’s chess board. Not like the rest of you robots! He made his own choices, damn it, he rebelled, he fell,  _he lived_ . He was not a tool, and he deserves more than  _this_ -” He gestured wildly at the body before them, “this  _oblivion_ , just because  _your_ God has no more use for him! Go back to where you came from. GO!”

He pushed her roughly out of his way and fled back into the bunker, ignoring Sam’s frantic calls after him.

The door to the bunker swung closed behind him heavily, the sound of it made him pause, and Dean spun around to stare at it. The thought of going to his room made him sick, but he wanted to be alone. Both of his hands were worked into his hair, pulling at it. He could fell it slipping from him, his control. His chest heaved and hot pins pricked the back of his eyes. He had to get out. Had to go. Now.

He ran to the garage, the urge to get as far away as he could driving him. The sight of the impala, his baby, sitting there waiting for him was a rcomfort. He yanked open the door and slipped into the driver’s seat, closing the door and turning the ignition simultaneously. The impala roared to life, and Dean glanced absently at the rearview before throwing it into reverse. He froze.

He looked back at the mirror, reached up slowly, and adjusted it so he had a clear view of the back seat. That had been Cas’ spot.

Dean put the car back into park, and softly thunked his head down on the steering wheel. He turned off the car. He’d never see Cas’ reflection in that mirror again. Why did that hurt so much? His eyes were filled with tears. He pressed his palm to his chest, where the pain was the worst. Hannah had said there was some of Cas there, with his soul. That explained why it had felt like he was still here, why it had been so hard to accept that he was… that he was really…

“No.” he cried softly, “No, Cas, no.” He climbed awkwardly into the back seat, and then curled himself until he lay across the seat. The tears were unrelenting now, and he clutched tighter to his chest. How could he just not exist anymore? Completely gone but for whatever Dean carried? Pleas tumbled from him like nonsense. “Why, no, Cas, please.” She’d said it would fade, and then there would be nothing. He pressed his hand to his chest again, wrapped his arms around it like it would stop Cas’ Grace from leaving him.

He’d have nothing.

Cas had had nothing of his own to leave behind, not really; even his body wasn’t really his own. It occurred to Dean that he’d never seen Cas’ true face, that the version of Cas he had in his memories was filtered by the vessel of Jimmy Novak. A new wave of sobs wracked his body until he was gasping for air. He wondered if he would notice when the last of Castiel’s grace slipped from him. How long would it take? How long did he have until he lost him completely? Throughout it all, a painful question ran repeatedly through his mind,  _why didn’t I tell him?_

Eventually, his litany of denial turned into a desperate and angry prayer muttered between hiccupping gasps. “God, please. Please, just, bring him back. We’ve done so much, please. I’ll stop, if that’s what it takes, God, I’ll never hunt again, I swear it. If that’s what you want, please. _It hurts so much._  Take me instead. Heaven. Hell. I don’t care. Please. He doesn’t deserve this. HE DOESN’T DESERVE THIS! Oh, please. I’ll tell him. I swear. Bring him back and I’ll tell him that I- I’ll tell him I love him. I’ll ask him to stay. Please. I never got to tell him. Oh, damn it,  _I never got to tell him!_ ”

* * *

 

Hannah had returned to Heaven when Dean had told her to leave, she immediately resumed her effort to reestablish order. It felt strange, like there was something else she should be doing. She let the constant, quiet murmur of incoming prayers soothe her. She could pick out one individually if she wanted, or, if she focused, could process every one simultaneously, as could all angels. Sometimes, if the prayer was addressed to an angel individually, or for a number of other reasons, a prayer could be heard above the others, stronger and louder. When Dean Winchester’s voice rose above the din, clearer than any prayer that had done so before, she froze. Throughout all of Heaven, angels paused to listen to the Righteous Man plead for the life of his Seraph.

For the first time, Hannah found herself disgusted with her God and father for his indifference. Castiel _didn’t_ deserve this. After everything, Castiel deserved happiness, and most of Heaven seemed to agree. Echoes of Dean’s pain radiated through his words and plucked at the angels’ newfound emotions, and each of them lamented not being powerful enough to grant him his prayer.  For the first time in their existence, many angels wept.

For many days, Dean’s prayers continued to drown out the crowd, and though most of them were heated words and angry curses at a God that seemed not to care, some were heart wrenching. At one point, someone had laid Castiel’s coat out on Dean’s bed, and when he discovered it, all of Heaven was rocked by the sheer force of his longing.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean wiped the sheen of fog from the mirror and stared at his reflection. He didn’t feel like the person that gazed back at him. His eyes fell to his shoulder, where Castiel’s handprint had once been seared. He wanted it back. At first he’d hated it, afraid of what it might mean, but then he’d grown used to it, and, if he was honest, a little disappointed when Cas removed it. Sure, it’d made the thing with Lisa easier, having to explain a man’s handprint burned onto his bicep would have definitely been awkward, but he still didn’t know _why_ the angel had removed it, and what did it mean that he had?

Had he been angry with Dean? Disappointed in his failure? Or had it simply been accidental? Did it not mean the things Dean thought it did? He should have asked. He pressed a hand to the center of his chest, which was a movement that was becoming a habit. Was there any of Cas still in there? He hoped so, it was all he had of him. Would he feel it, when there wasn’t anything of Cas left? When the final bit of him faded away into nothing? His chest ached at the thought, and he imagined the ragged hole inside him growing.

He looked again at his shoulder, futilely willing the handprint to appear. He just wanted something to hold on to. Something that he could see and touch every day to prove to himself that Cas hadn’t disappeared from existence entirely. Something that meant some small bit of him had survived. He’d kept Cas’ coat, after he’d found it left unsubtly on his bed—probably by Sam—but after a few nights of Dean taking it to bed, it didn’t smell like Cas anymore. That part of him was gone, like his Grace would be, if it wasn’t already.  

Everything Cas was was slipping away into nothing, and Dean couldn’t stop it.

Slowly, their friends took their leave of the bunker. Jody and Donna left the day after the service, having to get back to work. Garth followed them out the day after that, anxious to get home and letting slip with a wide grin that his wife was expecting their first child. Charlie left too, wanting to give them a little space for a few days, but she promised to pop in often and to help them eat some of the lasagna. Surprisingly, Claire was the last to go. She’d hovered a long time in the doorway as they said their goodbyes, as if she wasn’t ready to leave.

“You don’t have to go, you know.” Sam said. “We have plenty of space, you can claim a room… there’s an open one next to Charlie’s... I know she’s not around, but--”

“No.” She said quickly. “I mean, thanks, but I’m… I don’t think so.”

“Well keep it in mind, okay?” She nodded, and he gave her a one armed hug.

Dean inched forward almost shyly, clutching a paper gift bag tighter than necessary. He’d braved Castiel’s room for it, though it hadn’t hurt as much as he’d imagined. Cas hadn’t really ever used it. He held it out to her. She took it almost cautiously.

“I know it’s not quite your birthday, but, uh, Cas wanted to make sure he got you something.” She looked at the bag with raised eyebrows, and reached carefully under the tufts of tissue paper. “He made me come with him to pick out a gift, but after he found that, he wouldn’t listen to anything I had to say about it.” She slowly pulled out an angry looking stuffed cat. “He uh, said it reminded him of you.”

She huffed a laugh and rolled her eyes, but her lip quivered. “He’s such a dork.” She whispered.

Dean chuckled, but he felt empty. He’d been tempted to keep it for himself. It had been one of the last things he and Cas had done together.

“Well, thanks.” She said genuinely.

“Yeah.” He pulled her in for an awkward hug. “Stay safe. Keep your nose clean.” She stepped back and nodded. “Call if you need anything.”

“ _Okay, mom._ ” She teased.

Dean smiled, but it felt strange on his face. “Alright, fine. Get out of here. Go be a free spirit or whatever.”

* * *

Nearly a month had passed since Sam had buried Castiel’s vessel, and Dean had spent most of it sleeping. Sam was worried to say the least. Dean seemed okay, all things considered, He still ate and showered regularly, and he’d carry a conversation if prompted, but he seemed to have lost his drive. Sam searched for a long time to find the perfect hunt to ease him back into the game. A simple salt and burn, just a few hours from home.

Now that he had found it, however, he hesitated. He wanted to get Dean out of this funk, but he didn’t want to rush him. He’d never seen his brother this broken before, and he wanted to give him the time he needed to heal.

Dean shuffled into the kitchen where Sam was camped with his laptop. He would usually hang out in the library, but Dean didn’t go into the library anymore. Dean didn’t go anywhere but his room, the bathroom, and the kitchen. “Hey.” Sam said, aiming for casual.

Dean grunted, nodded in response, and pulled some food from the fridge. He was wearing pajama pants and bed head, and it was 3 in the afternoon.

“I found a hunt, not far from here.” Sam ventured.

“Yeah?” Dean asked, but didn’t turn away from his task.

“Yeah. A ghost, not anything big.”

“You heading out today?”

“I… I thought you could come with me.”

Dean turned, perplexed, then said, as if it should be obvious, “I’m tired, Sam.”

"I know, but maybe it will be good? To get out of the bunker for a couple days?”

Dean stared off into space for a long minute, pressing his palm to his chest, and Sam started to rethink the wisdom of taking him on a hunt in his current state. A ghost was easy, as long as you were on your game, but if you were distracted, it could be disastrous. Finally, Dean nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Sam was surprised, he’d expected a fight. “O-okay. Can you be ready in an hour?”

Dean yawned. “Sure.”

An hour later, they were loading the impala, and Sam handed Dean the keys. Dean looked down at them before asking, “Can you drive?” Sam looked at him like he’d grown an extra head. Dean shrugged and said defensively, “My shoulder’s been bugging me the last few days, I think I pulled a muscle or something.” He rubbed his chest and rolled his left shoulder to make the point.

Sam was incredulous. “How would you manage that, Dean? You haven’t been doing anything but sleeping.”

Dean gave him a dirty look. “Well, maybe I  _slept_ on it wrong. I don’t know, it just hurts. Are you going to drive, or not?”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam nodded, even more worried now, and took the keys back.  Sam spent the entire drive tossing his brother worried looks, but Dean fell asleep two minutes out of town.

* * *

 

Even though the hunt itself was only a few hours from the bunker, Sam still stopped at the motel in town and rented a room. Sometimes, stuff came up, making a simple hunt not so simple anymore, and with Dean out of sorts… It was already late in the day, anyway. Better to start in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. He said as much to Dean, who nodded absently.

Honestly though, Sam was seriously considering telling Dean to stay behind tomorrow. He watched his brother wander over to the far bed, rubbing at his chest and rolling his shoulder, before falling into it. Sam sighed, shook his head, and headed out to find food. Dean was still asleep when Sam returned with burgers and fries in a greasy paper sack. He nudged Dean awake. “C’mon. You gotta eat.”

Dean ate everything Sam set in front of him, and some of Sam’s fries to boot, but he did it without the gusto that Sam had been accustomed to. Before they had lost Cas, Dean would devour his meal, with cheeks bursting and indecent noises, and it made Sam crazy. Now, it was like Dean was a machine that was programmed to eat, but not to enjoy it, and Sam hated it.

After they had eaten, Sam tried briefing Dean on the case they were working in the morning, but he wasn’t sure Dean was listening. He gave up with a sigh after about 20 minutes, and both of them turned in early for the night.

He’d expected, with Dean being so obviously tired, that his brother would sleep like a rock. In actuality, Dean tossed and turned the entire time, groaning occasionally and grinding his teeth. Twice he got up and swallowed pain relievers before shuffling back to bed. Sam had assumed the complaints about his shoulder were Dean’s way of deflecting the conversation from how he had been coping, but now Sam wasn’t so sure.

In the morning, Dean had dragged himself out of bed at the blare of the alarm, and Sam grew less and less confident as they got ready to leave. Dean’s face was pale, and his jaw perpetually tensed. He’d lost weight. Sam hadn’t noticed, before, but the lines of Dean’s suit didn’t hang the way they had before, and now it seemed glaringly obvious… Or maybe it was his eyes, sunken and dark, making him look so gaunt and drawn. As Sam watched, Dean swallowed a handful of aspirin, and then rubbed absently at his chest.

Sam chewed his lip, and braced for a fight. “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

Dean looked as if he couldn’t quite make sense of what Sam had said at first, and then eventually shrugged. “I… I thought I was.” He looked away, and then shrugged again before sinking onto the bed. “I’m just so tired anymore.”

Sam struggled with a response, too many words on his tongue at once. “I don’t think you are regular tired, Dean.” He hesitated before continuing. “I think you’re depressed. I thought getting you out would help, but I don’t want to get you killed in the process. Maybe a hunt for your first outing was a bad idea.”

“Jesus, Sam. I’m not a fucking baby. And I’m not  _depressed_ .” Dean scoffed and then sighed. “Maybe I’m just too old for this shit now.”

Sam sank onto the mattress next to him. “Or, maybe you recently lost someone, and can’t just push it away this time like you normally do.” Dean didn’t respond for a long while, and when he did, it was only to raise his shoulder and drop it. Sam sighed. “Maybe it would, uh, help to talk about it? Sometimes, I want to talk about him, I feel like I  _need_ to talk about him, but I don’t want to upset you or—“

“I’m not made of glass either, damn it. You want to talk about him, then talk about him.”

He didn’t even sound angry, just… exhausted. Sam frowned. “You sure?”

Dean groaned. “Christ, Sam. Yes. If it makes you feel better, then yes.”

Sam nodded, but was quiet for a long time. Talking about talking made the _actual_ talking harder, and he still didn’t know what to say. Finally, he settled for a shrug and an “I miss him,” that was more breath than anything else.

Dean rubbed his hand across his face roughly, sucked in a breath, and then forced a response past the lump in his throat. “Me too.” Dean held his breath, waiting for more, but Sam didn’t say anything else. Eventually, Dean looked sideways at him. “Is- Is that it?”

Sam huffed a laugh, and the tension from before melted away. “I guess so.” Dean smiled a little, and Sam nudged him with his shoulder. “Shut up.”

When all was said and done, Dean opted to stay behind. He saw the worry in Sam’s frown, but knew he’d be more of a liability than a help in his current state. He’d been seriously downplaying his pain this morning, and he was  _tired._ Sam could talk about depression, and, hell, what did Dean know? Maybe that's what it was… but Dean was sure depression didn’t cover this nagging agony in his chest.

It had started almost a week ago, just twinges of sharp pain shooting through his shoulder, and he’d brushed it off, but it had gradually escalated into a constant wavering of pain that centered in his chest and throbbed up through his collar bone, into his left shoulder, and then tapered at his elbow. It was too much to just brush off now. Something was wrong.

He should have expected it, should have known by now that nothing in his life could just… be okay. The pain crescendoed suddenly, and he gasped and clutched his chest until it passed. Part of him knew he should probably go to a doctor, knew that it would be unbearably ironic for him, a Winchester, to die of a completely natural cause like heart disease instead of exsanguination or the like. Another part of him, however, suspected that a doctor wouldn’t be able to do him any good anyway. The pain was too… too  _deep_ . It went through him, through skin and muscle and bone, to the very core of him.

He imagined this pain had everything to do with Cas’ remaining Grace. Maybe his soul was having some adverse reaction to prolonged exposure to it or something. Maybe this was some supernatural withdrawal, his body adjusting to the loss of the Mark. Sometimes he worried the pain was some bit of evil from the Mark that had survived, trying to work its way back into his soul. He’d imagine waking up and finding the Mark seared on his arm again, and how now, without Cas, he’d never have a hope of fighting it. It was a terrifying thought.

Of course, there was another possibility, which he didn’t like to admit was most likely, and it was that Cas’ Grace was fading, leaving him empty. It made sense, if he was honest with himself, though the word  _fading_ sounded a lot gentler than whatever was going on inside him. It sure as hell didn’t feel like fading. It felt like ripping, like gnashing, like bruises with tattered edges. Like Castiel’s Grace was trying to tear itself apart and him with it. It was excruciating and exhausting.

He kicked off his shoes and lay back on the bed, not even bothering to remove his suit, and grabbed his cell off the nightstand. He hesitated, not entirely ready to let Sam in on how bad it was, and then with a shrug sent him a text. _When you get back, bring narcotics or whiskey._ Then he fell asleep waiting for a response.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam made his way quickly back to the impala, self-consciously patting at the pills in his pocket. He’d lifted them from this last witness he’d interviewed, taking them from the medicine cabinet when he’d excused himself to the bathroom. They were only Tylenol mixed with a bit of codeine, but they were the strongest he could get on such short notice. He thought about Dean’s text, and hoped they would be strong enough to help. If Dean was asking for pain meds, things must be bad. He wondered if depression could manifest as a physical pain, and thought maybe he’d been too hasty to invite Dean along on a hunt so soon. He added that to the list of things he’d look up when researching later.

He slid into the Impala and turned the key, trying to shake the unsettling feeling he got whenever he drove Dean’s car. Driving the impala almost always meant something was wrong with Dean, whether he was missing, dead, or demon (or some combination of the three), so naturally Sam didn’t enjoy it all that much. If everything had been business as usual, he would be headed off to the library right now instead of back to the motel, but things hadn’t been business as usual for a long time.

It had only been about six hours since he’d left this morning, and he had some more digging to do (both figuratively and literally), but he needed to check on Dean. He felt the urge to rush straight there, but the memory of Dean’s suit hanging so loosely made him pause. His brother probably hadn’t even bothered to eat today, and Sam refused to let Dean go without. He stopped at the first place he came to and bought lunch for them both, including two slices of pie, for good measure.

Sam pulled into park as close to their room as possible, grabbed their food from the passenger seat, and then fished around for their room key. He approached the door quietly, assuming that Dean was asleep, but then decided it didn’t much matter if he was going to wake Dean to eat anyway. The keys clinked noisily as he unlocked the door, and he made no attempt to quiet them. The lights were all out, and the thick curtains had been drawn over the small window, making the room dark. It took many moments for Sam’s eyes to adjust, and he could hear Dean heaving quick, harsh pants, punctuated by grunts of discomfort.

“Dean?” He called out as he made his way to the nearest lamp, he flicked it on, and blinked at the sudden brightness. Dean thrashed on the bed, unable to answer through his gritted teeth. All of a sudden, his body twisted violently—his back arching up off the bed, and a guttural cry wrenched its way out of him. Sam let everything he was carrying fall to the floor, and rushed to help his brother. Sam grabbed his shoulders and tried to ease him back down, but Dean only thrashed harder. For a wild moment, Sam worried that he might be possessed, or, failing that, having a seizure. All at once, Dean dropped back to the bed, gasping and clutching at his chest. “Dean?” Sam called again.

Dean’s eyes fluttered open and then darted around as if trying to get his bearings. When they landed on Sam, relief shone through them. “Sam?” He asked, and then slammed his mouth shut on a choked gasp before curling up on himself and groaning pitifully.

“What’s happening? Is it your shoulder? Dean? What is going on? When did it get this bad? Why didn’t you call me?!” Questions and concern poured out of him as he tried in vain to find some wound to treat, some way to help. Dean couldn’t answer except to clench his jaw and pinch his eyes shut against the pain, one arm wrapped around to clutch at his bicep as if trying to pull in into his body. Without a curse to break or a wound to stitch, Sam felt completely powerless. “How long has it been like this? Are you having a heart attack? I’m calling 911.”

“N-NO!” Dean ground out. “Ungh. Can’t help.”

Sam looked at Dean, undecided. “Then, what…?” Dean arched off the bed again in sudden jerking movements, fisting the bedding and strangling a cry that tried to make its way out of him. Sam watched him fall once again to the bed, panting and cursing, with sweat beading on his brow. “Dean?” Sam asked, unable to keep the uncertainty and fear out of his voice. Which of course, Dean picked up on, and he forced his grip on the bedding to loosen so he could nod and clap Sam awkwardly on the arm, as if to reassure him before quickly curling up on himself again.

Sam tried to get him to focus. “Dean, talk to me. I need you to tell me what’s happening. What’s  _really_ happening.”

Dean nodded, but couldn’t articulate anything until after another wave of pain had finished twisting him upwards again. Even then, all he could get out was a quick gasp, “It’s Cas.” Which wasn’t any sort of explanation at all.

Sam furrowed his brow. “Cas? What about…God, Dean _, what did you do_ ?! Did you try to bring him back?!” Dean shook his head back and forth violently at the accusation, but it was the first and only thing that made any sense to Sam; that Dean had done something stupid in an attempt to bring back his angel and was paying for it now. “You have to tell me what you did, Dean. Was it a spell? A deal? I can’t help if I don’t know what I’m dealing with! We can’t do this anymore, damn it! We have to let him go!”

Dean grabbed at his wrist, still shaking his head and then choked out a pitiful “No.” Sam opened his mouth to protest, but then Dean practically growled, “I  _didn’t_ .”

Sam believed him, mostly, but if Dean hadn’t brought this on himself, what was going on? “Then…?” Sam was at a loss.

Sam could see Dean fighting to get more words out, and he clutched at his chest in that way that had become familiar. “Hi-his Grace.”

It took a moment. Sam had taken Hanna’s words about Cas’ Grace with a grain of salt, assumed that it had mostly been a strange attempt at comfort. Then he remembered what she’d said about it eventually fading. “It’s…” He left it, unwilling to say what he knew was true.

“Bailing.” Dean finished for him. He sounded thoroughly defeated beneath the pain. Like the word had hurt him more than the rest of it.

He was sweating and panting and began clawing at his shirt. “Do you want it off?” Sam asked, and Dean nodded. After the next bout of pain, Sam quickly pulled the shirt over Dean’s head, and Dean collapsed to the bed, his relief palpable but short lived.

Sam retrieved the medicine he’d brought and handed Dean more than the recommended amount. Dean had tossed them back as soon as he was physically able, grimacing at the taste as he chewed them, wanting any relief they could provide as soon as possible. After that, there wasn’t much Sam could do but watch his brother writhe.

He lasted all of five minutes. “Is the medicine helping at all?” Dean was trying to catch his breath, and shook his head rapidly, eyes pinched shut. “Should I call Hannah?”

Dean shook his head again before contorting in pain once more. When it subsided, Dean sobbed. “Please.”

Sam frowned down at him. “It’s getting worse.”

Dean whimpered, waiting for the pain to swell again. “Cas, please.”

Sam couldn’t be sure if Dean was asking for Cas to make the pain stop, or asking him to stay, maybe a little of both. Sam’s next words stalled on his tongue as his brother fought the pain again, every muscle taut as his chest thrust upward and his back left the bed. He seemed to freeze in that position, the air around him crackled, heavy with energy, and time seemed to crawl to a stop. Sam took a step towards him, realized belatedly and with disbelief that  _his brother was shining_ , and all at once time caught up with them.

A guttural scream wrenched its way out of Dean’s throat, and silver-blue fissures of light zigzagged across his skin from the center of his chest. The fissures flickered, and then pulsed all at once in a blinding white shockwave of power and light that knocked both hunters unconscious.

*~*~*~*

Dean blearily cracked his eyes open, then immediately rolled over, leaning over the side of the bed and retching, but his stomach was already empty. He felt goddamn awful, and swore he’d never drink again. Had he been drinking? Why did he feel so… empty? He pressed his hand to his chest, and everything came back at once.  _Gone._

He wanted to rage and cry and die, but didn’t have the energy for any of it, so he rolled back over, intent on sleeping until it didn’t hurt anymore. He came face to face with an impossibility. He scrambled off the bed, and backed away slowly, nearly tripping over Sam.  _How…?_ He tried to work it out in his head, but the only thing that made any sense at all… no. Impossible. Even for them.

Then again…

He took a step back towards the bed, and swayed on his feet, black splotches swam in his eyesight, and he knew he would not be upright for much longer. It was probably malicious, a trap of some sort, for when had anything in their lives been benign? Or hell, he was probably hallucinating. But what if it was exactly what it looked like? What he  _hoped_ it was? Maybe this impossibility would kill him, maybe it was some sick way of finally breaking him, but he found he couldn’t care, and wanted to protect it, just in case.  He thought about the energy that had burst out of him all at once, and realized that kind of thing would not go unnoticed; he wouldn’t have much time.

He stumbled to the dresser, pulled out his knife and ran it across his palm. His hands were shaking and the blade bit deeper than he’d intended. He could hear Sam coming to, groaning and struggling to sit up, but he couldn’t pause, could barely think. He dipped his fingers into the blood and drew a symbol on the wall, and his eyes swam again. He caught his hip on the dresser as he tried to move over to a new section of wall, and he nearly went down, but he was nothing if not stubborn, and grit his teeth until he could reach forward and start the next symbol.

“Dean?” Sam called, his voice thick with confusion.

Dean ignored him, intent on his task. His knees gave out, so he began the third symbol from there. Sam rushed over and caught his bleeding hand, drops of it running down his arm and splashing onto the carpet. Dean tried to throw him off, but barely jostled him. “Dean, what are you doing?!”

“Help me.” Dean’s tongue felt thick and heavy, but he had to make sure this got done. He grabbed Sam’s collar, and pulled him in close. “Don’t let them in, Sam. Pr’mise me.”

“Let who in?! What is going on?” Sam tore a strip from the hem of his shirt and wrapped Dean’s palm in it.

“Angels. Demons. Anybody. You hafta fin’sh it. Sigils.”

“Okay, but  _why?!”_ Dean’s eyes fluttered closed, and Sam shook him. “Dean, why do we need warding?!”

“They migh’ wan’… gotta… keep safe.”

“Keep  _what_ safe?!” Sam cried both exasperated and a little afraid.

Dean’s eyes popped open again, though he wavered unsteadily, and his eyes slid towards the bed and then back to Sam. “The baby.” Dean crumpled completely to the floor.

“The… what?” Sam breathed, staring incredulously at Dean for a second, then flicked his eyes over to the bed in trepidation. There, laying curled up on its stomach, head pillowed on tiny arms and sleeping soundly, was a small naked infant. Sam’s eyes widened, and he took an involuntary step away from it before looking back towards his brother. “How long was I out?!” He breathed to no one in particular. He didn’t know what Dean had done, but if they were warding against both angels and demons, it probably wasn’t good. For a split second he thought about letting them take it, scared that this baby had been born of some extremely powerful (and probably dark) magic, but his loyalty to his brother ran deeper than his fear of whatever that thing might be. “Aw, hell.” He muttered before picking up the knife and slitting his palm.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam finished the warding as best he could, 22 sigils in all, and then went around the room and double checked them, trying to keep as much distance between himself and the… the baby as possible. It had made a couple unhappy grunts, and Sam prayed it would sleep a little while longer. Sam didn’t _do_ babies. Kids, yeah. Kids were great, but babies were terrifying. There had been one case, with a baby shapeshifter, and Sam (albeit soulless at the time) had been more than willing to let Dean field most of the babying. Babies couldn’t tell you what was wrong except to scream, they didn’t use the toilet yet, and they were _fragile._ Add the fact that this one might be the byproduct of witchcraft gone awry, and that was enough to have Sam keeping his distance.

After he was absolutely sure he’d perfected their defenses as well as he was able, Sam nudged his brother with a toe. Dean didn’t stir. Sam bent down, and pulled Dean into a sitting position, but even that didn’t seem to have much of an effect. He gave four quick taps to Dean’s face, and his brother frowned.

“Damn it, Dean. Wake up.”

Sam sighed and laid Dean back down before filling a small plastic cup with cold water. He upended it over Dean’s face, and his brother spluttered at the shock of cold and wet. He opened his eyes, but Sam could see them already sliding closed again, so he sat his brother up again in a rush. “Oh no no. C’mon, Dean. Wake up.  _Why do you have a baby?!_ ”

Dean’s eyes crossed as he attempted to focus on his brother. “Baby’s ou’side.” He slurred, confused.

“No, not—“ Sam sighed, and pulled Dean all the way up off the floor. “C’mon. Stand up. The one on the bed.  _Where did it come from?_ ”

It was slowly coming back to Dean, and he put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, to steady himself. His eyes slid back to the bed. “Oh.”

“Oh? There is a  _baby_ , on your bed. How in the hell…?”

“I… I don’t know.” Dean still hadn’t taken his eyes off the tiny figure on the bed.

Sam shook his head. “Bull shit. You writhe around for hours, a random baby appears, and you start putting up warding ‘til you pass out. What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Dean insisted.

“Well you know  _something._ Why else insist on the sigils?”

Dean rubbed his chest with his palm absently. “I didn’t  _know_ anything, just… all that power, something supernatural is bound to notice, and you were passed out, and I wasn’t going to last long, and I couldn’t be sure but…” His rambling trailed off, and Sam searched his face for any dishonesty. “I—I think…” Dean shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was going to say the words out loud. “I think it’s…” He turned back to Sam, “Cas.”

“Dean. That’s insane. Even for us.” Dean shrugged, and took a step towards the bed. Sam grabbed his arm to stall him. “Don’t. We don’t know what it is.”

Dean stilled, but only to argue. “He’s gone, Sam.” He gestured to his chest, and he nearly choked on the words. “I  _felt_ him leave, it almost killed me, and then when I woke up…” He waved towards the baby. “What other explanation is there?”

“I don’t know, but… You can’t let yourself… Just, don’t get your hopes up, okay? Not until we know more.”

“Fine.” Dean took measured steps towards the infant, holding his breath. As he reached the end of the bed, there was a pounding knock on the motel door. Dean and Sam shared a look, and Dean surreptitiously placed himself between the baby and the door as Sam moved to open it. Sam held the demon knife tightly as he pulled the door open.

Hannah stood on the other side, looking aghast. “What have you done?!”

Dean stiffened and snapped, “None of your damn business!”

Just as Sam replied, “We haven’t done anything.”

Hannah narrowed her eyes, and looked at them gravely. “There is no point in lying, all of Heaven felt the backlash.” Her face softened a fraction. “I assure you, whatever it is you have managed to bring back with this foolishness, it is not Castiel. I shudder to think of what monster—“

“We haven’t  _done_ anything.” Sam repeated. “It just sort of… happened.”

“ _Sam!”_ Dean hissed in protest.

“We’re a little out of our element here Dean!”

Hannah watched them suspiciously. “You… had no hand in this magic?” Sam shook his head, and Dean glared. The angel’s eyes darted around the room. “What happened then?”

“Dean was hurting, really bad—“

“Goddamn it, Sam, so help me…”

Sam turned from the doorway to his brother. “She can’t enter, Dean. It’s not going to hurt to tell her what happened, maybe she can help.”

“We don’t need help.”

“The hell we don’t!” Dean’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t say anything else, so Sam turned back to Hannah. “Anyway, he said he thought that Castiel’s Grace was leaving, but then this light just burst out of him, and we were both knocked unconscious. When Dean came to, it was—“

“That’s enough, Sam.” Dean warned.

“Whatever was created here, I’m sure it is hardly what you think it is. Where is it? May I see it?” She asked, curiosity warring with her suspicion.

Sam looked questioningly to Dean. “Hell no.”

Sam let go of the door and moved towards his brother to try and talk some sense into him. “Dean…”

Dean turned and scooped the baby quickly and carefully off the bed, cradling it to his chest and snatching Castiel’s angel blade from under his pillow, the infant made discontented whimpers, but didn’t cry. He pointed the blade at his brother, and ignored Hannah’s quick gasp. Sam immediately put his palms up, and Dean backed up until his back hit the wall. “Stay away, Sam.”

Sam looked from Dean to Hannah, not quite sure. Hannah was watching Dean and the baby with a perplexed expression. She mimicked Sam’s placating position and put her hands before her. “I only wish to look closer, I don’t understand.”

Sam looked back to Dean, who was carefully readjusting the baby until its head was tucked under his chin, holding it against his chest with one hand… “She’s lying. She just wants to gank him, or take him away to some Heaven lab or something. He’s not a monster.  _He’s not._ How could he be?” Dean swallowed, “Sammy, please.”

“I don’t think she wants to hurt him.” It wasn’t quite a question. He turned to Hannah again, and she started.

“When I felt the backlash, I had expected some poorly animated corpse, I wasn’t prepared for…” She waved a hand in Dean’s direction. “You swear that this was not of your doing? No spells, no trinkets, no chanting?”

Sam shook his head. “We’re just in town for a case. Dean’s been…” He glanced at his brother and cleared his throat, “down a lot lately. I thought it would be good for him to get out.”

They both turned expectantly to Dean, who hesitated before saying, “I didn’t do anything; it was just like Sam said.” The baby began to fuss, and Dean immediately set down the blade, picked up his discarded flannel, and wrapped it up in it. He made soft shushing noises and bounced gently on the balls of his feet until it quieted again.

Hannah seemed at a loss. “If what you say is true, then, most likely, his is not a danger, but I need to be sure. The sigils limit me, and I cannot see far into the room except with my vessel’s eyes, can you bring him closer?” She considered Dean’s suspicious glare for a moment and then added, “I promise that I do not intend either of you harm, and the room is warded against me, I only wish to find out its purpose, and how this is possible.”

Dean’s instincts told him to stay put, but he  _needed_ to know, and Hannah could give him answers. He tried not to think about how much it would hurt him to learn that this had all been some fleeting cosmic fluke, and he didn’t dare think about how he would deal with toting around baby (human? Angel?) Cas for the foreseeable future. He shuffled carefully forward towards the door, unconsciously holding the baby tighter to him. He stopped abruptly when he heard Hannah’s sharp intake of breath.

Then she began to chuckle and shake her head. “This is... impossible, but I find myself unsurprised.”

Dean’s heart was pounding so loudly in his chest, it was a wonder the baby didn’t wake again. “What?” He felt Sam’s hand on his shoulder, a silent reminder that his brother stood with him. Hannah laughed again, seemingly delighted. Dean tensed. “Is he… Cas?”

Hannah stopped mid giggle, and her face grew solemn. “Oh, no. I’m sorry.”

“But, he came from Cas’ Grace—“

“I told you,” She said gently, “Grace used to make life makes  _new_ life.” Dean nodded, but disappointment still flashed across his face. “But, don’t you see?” Hannah’s grin grew back on her face. “Even now, he managed to answer your prayers. No matter how the angels yearned to help, and we did, even when all of Heaven could do nothing,  _Castiel did_ .” She saw nothing but confusion on Dean’s face. “Isn’t this what you’ve been asking for? Something to remember him by? Something to hold on to?”

Thoughtfulness took over his features. “So, he’s like, Cas’ kid then?”

“There was not enough power in the remnants of Grace to do this alone.” Dean looked like he was about to object; Hannah rolled her eyes and wondered if he was being thick headed on purpose. “This child was created from Castiel’s remaining Grace and remnants of  _your_ soul.” She let that sink in for a moment before smiling softly at the baby in Dean’s arms and murmuring, “Your son is beautiful.”

Dean sucked in a shaky breath. “My…?”

“Um, maybe you should sit down.” Sam maneuvered Dean back so he could sink heavily onto the bed.

Dean pulled the baby away from his chest and held it on his lap carefully, gazing at its face. “That’s not… I can’t… He’s so tiny.” He was crying, but didn’t even realize it until a tear slipped from his lashes to splash on a soft cheek. Velvet brows furrowed and lips pouted around a little fist. Dean wiped it away and then cradled him close again. Elation, grief, shock, and terror, among other emotions, tore through Dean at a pace he couldn’t quite keep up with, so he let the tears fall and made whispered promises to the child in his arms.

Sam watched his brother for a moment longer, then debated with himself before snapping a quick picture with his phone. Dean would probably be pissed when he saw it, but he was pretty distracted at the moment and he’d be glad for it eventually. Sam patted Dean on the arm and then stepped outside to both give them a moment alone and to talk a bit more with Hannah. He still had questions and worries, though they were very different than the ones he’d had moments before.

“Congratulations.” Hannah said with a smile.

It took Sam a moment, but then he smiled a bit too. “Oh. Yeah. I’m an uncle now, I guess.”

“You are not happy?” The angel asked, confused.

“No! I am. Well, I will be, it’s a lot to take in at once. At the moment, I’m mostly worried.” Hannah waited for him to elaborate, and Sam sighed. “I don’t know… You’re sure that’s what happened? He’s really Dean and Cas’ kid?”

Hannah nodded. “I could see bits of both of them in the child’s soul, and no sign that he was created by nefarious means.”

“Good.” He sighed, with relief this time. “And Heaven?” Hannah tilted her head in confusion. “From what I’ve read, the offspring of humans and angels weren’t exactly regarded warmly.”

“Nephilim were the result of breeding angels and human women, immensely powerful and gifted with free will. The child in there is mostly human, despite his… unorthodox method of creation. Heaven will have no issue with his existence, and in fact will probably rejoice in it.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Your brother prays particularly loudly and in very colorful language.”

“ _Mostly_ human?”

“There are still wisps of angelic power, but no more than that.”

Sam nodded, finally satisfied, and letting the truth of it settle on him. “I guess I should go shopping then, pick up the essentials?” He paused, then laughed. “I don’t even know what the essentials are!”

“I will bring you what you need, go, meet your nephew.” She nudged him towards the door.

“Are you sure? You don’t—“

She was already gone. Sam opened the door and went back inside. Dean looked up at him with damp eyes and a smile. Sam smiled back. “You okay?”

Dean laughed lowly, trying not to wake the baby still in his arms. “I don’t know.” Sam smeared the sigils that kept Hannah from the room, and then sat next to his brother on the bed, leaning over to get a better look. Dean watched him from the corner of his eye. “You wanna hold him?”

Sam put his hands up again. “Oh, uh, no. I don’t want to—“

“Oh, come on. Here. He wants to see his Uncle Sammy.”

“No, Dean, really—“ But Dean was already handing him a baby. Sam could just about fit his entire body in one hand. “Like-like this?”

“Yeah. Well, here.” Dean maneuvered the tiny body until it set more securely in the crook of Sam’s elbow. “There.”

Sam let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and let himself relax a little. “What are you going to call him?” He asked without looking up.

Dean stilled. “Aw, man. I don’t know. I can barely wrap my head around the fact he exists… I didn’t even think about that.”

“Well, you got time. You could always name him after me.” He teased.

“Yeah, um, no.”

As they watched, the little face scrunched up, a fist flailed, and the baby let out a cry. Sam froze. “Uh, what do I do?”

Dean laughed and took the baby from him, pulling it to his chest and getting up to bounce around the room. “He’s probably hungry.” He said with a frown, glancing around the room as if formula might magically appear.

“Hannah went to get some stuff, she should be back soon.”

Dean nodded and continued his bouncing walk back and forth until the baby fell back to sleep. He very carefully sat on the bed and tried in vain to maneuver himself up onto the pillow without jostling the bundle he carried. As soon as he was in a semi-comfortable position, he fell right to sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

Hannah arrived just a short time later with a subtle rush of air, baby essentials appearing with her, piled on the unoccupied bed. She held a dark brown diaper bag embroidered with interlocking blue and green rings that also looked to be full to bursting. Sam put a finger to his lips and nodded towards the sleeping pair, and Hannah nodded in acknowledgement.

The hunter hurried over to take the bag from her and chuckled lowly. “Wow.”

Hannah shrugged and kept her voice low. “I must admit, I was a tad overwhelmed at first, I hadn’t realized human infants were quite so… helpless, but I asked a woman where the “essentials” were, and she was very helpful.”

Sam looked at the heaping pile of merchandise on the bed, he hadn’t expected Hannah to come back with more than a box of diapers and a can of formula, but it looked as if the “very helpful” woman had convinced the angel to bring back half the store. He didn’t even recognize half of this stuff. He picked up a yellow and white box off the top of the pile and looked at it in confusion. His eyes landed on the word  _breastpump,_ and he set the box quickly back onto the pile.  _That_ was something Dean would not be needing, at least, Sam hoped not. There were a lot of disturbing things Sam had seen in his life, but he was pretty sure that that was an image he never  _ever_ needed. Ever.

“This is… a lot, thank you.”

Hannah beamed at his thanks.

“I know Dean was worried about formula and stuff, so he’ll be happy about that." He glanced at his brother and frowned. “Is… Is that normal? It’s barely cried at all, and Dean’s been dead on his feet for… hell, since we lost Cas. They’re okay, right?”

Hannah nodded. “I am not surprised. Harvesting energy from a soul takes quite a toll, and can be extremely painful. They will both be very tired for the next few days as they recover, but both seem to be in good health.”

Dean grimaced suddenly and then huffed a sigh, opening his eyes. The baby gave a small cry, catching Sam and Hannah’s attention. Dean sat up gingerly. “I think he just peed on me.” Sam chuckled, and Dean gave the fussing baby a stern look. “Not cool, little dude.” He looked up, a bit lost. Sam took the diaper bag from Hannah and set it on the bed next to Dean, who noticed the pile of stuff on the other bed. He sent Hannah a look of pure gratitude, and then dug around in the diaper bag for what he needed.

The baby wailed when Dean unwrapped it from the wet flannel, and then again, even, harder when he wiped it down. “Oh, I know buddy, I’m sorry. Almost done.” He cooed soothingly. He put on the tiny newborn sized diaper, and paused when he realized the dip in the front of the diaper, meant to avoid tender belly buttons, revealed no belly button at all. It made sense, considering he hadn’t been carried the traditional way, but it was still jarring. Dean shook it off and dug through the bag again, pulling out a pack of receiving blankets and a little onesie. It was made of a soft yellow cotton, and had the words “My Aunt says I’m an angel” stitched onto the front. Dean looked at Hannah and raised an eyebrow.

She blushed and shrugged. “I thought it was oddly appropriate.”

Dean laughed and finished dressing and wrapping the baby back up snugly. “There you go. Isn’t that better?” He asked, even as the baby still cried. Sam came forward with a bottle of premixed formula, and Dean took it gratefully, smiling when the tiny mouth latched on immediately and the crying subsided.

* * *

They didn’t make it back to the bunker until very late the next day. It had taken three hours to sort through the stuff Hannah had brought and pack up what they needed, settling a box of diapers and bags of babyproofing amid the weapons in the trunk. Sam found that particular juxtaposition odd, but Dean hadn’t even hesitated before tossing the bag of receiving blankets on top of the box of consecrated shells. When he mentioned it to Dean, his brother looked at him strangely. “It’s not the first time we’ve had baby stuff in the trunk, Sam.” Sam looked down guiltily at that, realizing with a new wave of resentment towards his father, that  _of course_ Dean was unfazed by it. He’d practically raised Sam in the back of that Impala.

By the time they were ready to go, Dean was exhausted, and the baby had already fallen asleep, buckled securely into his new car seat, but Dean took the keys, determined to drive at least part of the way. He started his car, smiling when she growled for him, and then he adjusted his rearview until he had a clear view of the mirror that hung on the back of the seat and his baby’s face.  _In Cas’ spot._ His chest tightened. The thought brought him peace and tore at him at the same time. He shook himself out of his melancholy and threw it into reverse.

They found a donation box down the road, and put all the things they’d decided they didn’t need in it (largely, the breast pump) before heading back home.

Sam fumbled to open the heavy metal door of the bunker, hands full of bags and baby stuff. When he finally managed to push the door open and step onto the landing, he heard a familiar voice call up to him from the open room below. “Hey, you’re not the pizza man. You need some help?”

Sam smiled down at Charlie and then frowned when he realized what she’d said. “Charlie, I’ve told you not to have pizza delivered here, it kinda defeats the purpose of having a secret hideout when you give a guy directions—“

“Is that a baby?” Claire interrupted as she walked into the room. Dean was just coming down the stairs, infant seat held in front of him so he could watch the baby sleep.

“Oh, hey Claire.” Sam said happily. “We didn’t know you were coming.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. I hope you guys don’t mind, Charlie said—“

He set down his bags and pulled her into a one armed hug. “I told you when you left, you’re welcome here whenever.”

“Wait, back up,” Charlie insisted, “why do you guys have a baby?”

Sam looked to Dean who was fighting a blush. “It’s… um, he’s mine.”

Two pairs of eyebrows shot up at that, but Charlie found her voice first. “So… how did that happen?”

Claire hesitated before adding, “Where’s his mom?” Sam laughed out loud, and Dean glared. Claire looked between them, confused. “What?”

Dean took a deep breath. “Well, he’s uh, mine and… and…”

Sam blurted with a grin, “Dean had Cas’ baby!”

“Damn it, Sam.” Dean groaned.

Only a beat passed before Charlie said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You had sex with Cas?!”

Claire cringed. “Oh, gross.”

Sam doubled over with laughter, and Dean spluttered. “N-no! We didn’t—“ He huffed and then grumbled. “First of all, that’s none of your damn business. Second of all, that’s not how any of this works.”

She held up her hands placatingly. “Okay, okay.” When nobody seemed to be willing to volunteer the information, Charlie pressed, “So… how does it work?”

Dean busied himself with the straps of the car seat and once again fought a blush. “The uh, Cliff-Notes version? Cas’ Grace, plus my soul, equals one baby.”

“Well, when I saw you just a week ago, you weren’t all fat, what gives?”

“Did you have to push it out or something?” Claire sounded one part disgusted and two parts horrified. Sam only laughed harder.

“Ugh! No! Jesus!” Dean cried indignantly. He pulled the baby up out of its seat and pulled it to his chest. Both women crowded to get a better look, and Dean grudgingly told them everything that happened, from the first couple twinges of pain to packing up the Impala and heading home. Sam interjected here and there, especially if the information was particularly mortifying. By the time he had finished, they had moved to the kitchen to heat up some formula, and the baby had looked around the room with bright eyes while he ate, squeezing Charlie’s finger when she offered it.

“Well, that explains why you look so much like your daddy Dean, doesn’t it?” She cooed.

“You think he looks like me?” Dean asked, surprised. “I think he looks more like Cas, all that dark hair and his big blue eyes.” He looked uncomfortably at Claire and added softly. “Or, well, Jimmy, I guess.”

The atmosphere grew awkward until Charlie chuckled and turned to Claire. “I guess that makes you like his half-sister or something.” They both looked at Dean to gage his reaction.

He shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Welcome to the family, kid.”

Claire rolled her eyes but then suppressed a giggle. “So… Does that make you my step-mom?”

Dean glared, but there was no heat in it. “Let’s not get carried away.”

* * *

Dean’s first night in the bunker as a father was a borderline disaster. When the baby slept, Dean only did fitfully, afraid of rolling over and crushing him. When the baby woke, it startled him into grabbing for the angel blade he normally kept beneath his pillow. Cries echoed down the corridors as Dean tried to heat up formula at mach speed, only for it to be too hot, and have to spend some time in the freezer to cool down. Sam came to ask if he could help twice. A three am diaper change ended with his bed covered in pee, and then later, more spit up than should be possible from such a small person.

“Come on, little man. I can run on four hours. Can I have four hours?”

The next morning, his family gave him coffee and pitying looks as the baby slept soundly in its seat. Sam spoke first, clearing his throat. “How was your first night?” Dean just glared at him. “Uh, yeah. Well, you look like shit, why don’t you let us keep an eye on him, and you can go shower?”

Dean looked up, surprised at the offer, and then looked uncertainly at the deceptively peaceful baby. “I don’t—“

“Come on Dean, you need it and we can handle it. Three adults versus one sleeping baby? No problem.”

They were all looking at him expectantly, and he  _wanted_ a shower, so he caved. “Alright, but if he—“

“We’ll come get you.”

The day went as smoothly as can be expected for an unexpectedly new dad and his band of ragtag helpers. They’d spent the entire day in baby boutiques racking up fraudulent charges, and then coming back and assembling multitudes of baby furniture. He and Sam would clean out another room sometime this week for Claire, she had graciously agreed to give up her newly claimed room—the one next door to Dean—for the baby. Dean tried not to feel guilty about displacing her,  _again,_ even if it was just down the hall.

There was a bassinet beside his bed, which, out of everything, threw Dean the most. He’d carried it in here after painstakingly assembling it, but it had slipped his mind as he moved on to helping Charlie with the changing table. Now, he froze midstride as it caught his eye. It was fringed in a soft white eyelet lace, and a pastel blue ribbon wove its way subtly around the outside of it tying in a tidy bow at the front. It stood out starkly, as if it didn’t belong.

He laid his son in the basket and sank heavily onto the bed, gently rocking the bed back and forth. His eyes darted around the room, lighting on his guns, his knives, his half empty bottles of whiskey. He took in the crucifixes, the dusty books about witchcraft, and the porn. Before he even fully understood why, tears pricked at his eyes and then rolled down his face.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, numbly rocking the bassinet as tears ran unchecked down his face, but that was how Sam found him. He walked past with barely a glance in the door, but swung back around as soon as he realized what he’d seen. “Dean, what—“

“What am I doing, Sam?” Dean croaked, and then wiped his face on his sleeve, eyes never leaving the infant.

Sam came towards him carefully, like Dean might bolt at any second. “I’m not sure what you mean…” He offered.

“ _What am I going to do_ ?” The question wheezed out of him, forced past the tightness in his throat.

Sam understood then, he thought. Honestly, he should have expected this. “You’re going to raise your son.” He answered as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet.

“How?” He demanded.

“Dean, I know this is scary for you, but I  _know_ you can do this. You practically raised me, you handled that shifter baby like a pro, you were amazing with Ben—“

“No! I know  _how._ I mean,  _how?!”_ Sam looked at him, completely lost. “What am I supposed to do? Take him on hunts?! Just toss him in the back of the impala?! Leave him alone in a hotel with a shotgun and a line of salt?! Make him recite exorcisms? Make him run obstacle courses over and over until he either gets it right or keels over from exhaustion?!”

Sam looked at his brother with a weird mix of pride and remorse in his chest. “No. You’re not—“

“What then? Get a house with a picket fence, and pretend that monsters don’t exist? Turn him loose on the world without the knowledge to protect himself?! And then what?  _Hope_ he doesn’t accidentally come across some vamp or shifter? Do I lie to him every day about who I was? About who  _he_ is? Never tell him about Cas??” He was shaking his head. “I can’t. I can’t win. I’ll ruin him, Sammy. He’s so perfect and good and all I can offer him is  _wrong._ ”

“Dean,” Sam warned, “stop.” He ducked his head until Dean looked at him. “What, are you going to give him away?”

Dean looked away. “If I have to.”

Sam waited until Dean looked up again. “You would  _never_ .” Sam shook his head. “Why does it have to be one way or the other? You’re not dad, and you could never let him go anywhere unprotected.”

“What other options do I have?” He sounded sincere.

Sam huffed a laugh. “Why is it up to you to decide his life for him? Isn’t that what we’ve been fighting for all this time? What Cas fell for? Giving fate and destiny the finger? Your job is not to choose which path he takes. Your job is to give him the tools he’ll need to flourish on whichever path he chooses. Teach him the trade—you know, moderately and in age appropriate intervals—we live in a virtual cavern of knowledge, so teach him. Maybe he’ll want to be a chronicler, the next generation of Men of Letters, or maybe he’ll want to be a hunter, or hell, maybe he’ll want to be a dental hygienist, who knows? All that matters is that you give him what he needs to succeed.

“You are going to be a great dad. You will probably also fuck it up from time to time, but guess what? So does everybody else.”

Dean was quiet for a long time, but never paused the sway of the bassinet. “You think I can… walk a line like that?”

“If you can’t do it, nobody can. Team Free Will, remember?”

Dean scoffed. “Free will parenting sounds like some new aged hippy shit.” Sam chuckled. “But… you’re right.”

“I-I’m sorry, what was that?” Sam teased. "I'm right?"

Dean rolled his eyes. “Shut up. Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They were quiet for a long time, until Dean sighed. “Free will, huh?” He looked thoughtful. “We all fought for it, but it meant more for Cas. It was so much more important to him, I think, because he knew what it was like to live without it. I think that’s why he always fought so hard.”

“That and, well, you.”

Dean fought a blush. “Shut up Sam, I’m trying to go somewhere with this.” Sam held up his hands in surrender. “Since it was so important to him, what if I… named the kid after it?”

Sam tried not to sound disgusted and failed. “You want to name him “Free Will”?!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “No, idiot. Just Will. Well, William, and we could call him Will.”

“William Winchester?” Sam nodded and shrugged. “Sounds pretty good to me.”

Dean nodded too. “I like it.” He hesitated. “I was thinking about… do you think Claire would mind if I made his middle name James? I mean, he might not even be here if Jimmy hadn’t said yes to Cas…”

“I think she would like that, but you could ask her in the morning.” Sam smiled and thumped his brother on the shoulder. “You should try to get some sleep, he’ll probably be crying soon.”

Dean chuckled. “Yeah, alright. Thanks Sam.”

Later that night, when wailing cries filtered through the halls, Sam got out of bed to see if Dean needed a hand. He followed the sound, and was halfway to the kitchen when the baby quieted. Sam considered just going back to bed, but, since he was already up, decided it wouldn’t hurt to look in on them. Dean sat in a kitchen chair, turned mostly away from the door, rocking gently and murmuring to the baby, who was making little pleased grunts as he ate. Sam leaned against the jamb, wondering at the fact that his brother might get to be happy.

Dean’s voice was hushed, but in the quiet of the bunker, his words carried. “… meet everybody, Jodi and Donna and Garth, they’ll love you. God, I wish Cas got to see you. He would have loved you so much.” He chuckled to himself. “He was a weird little guy, but I… I loved him, and he would have been so excited to be a daddy.” He paused and readjusted the baby for burping. “Hmm, maybe we’ll call him papa, what do you think? Less confusing for you that way. He’d like that, Papa Cas.

“You want me to tell you about your papa? I should, I should tell you all of it. I want you to know everything about him.” He was quiet for a moment, resettling the now almost asleep baby back into the crook of his arm. “It all starts in a barn. Well, it doesn’t really, but I’ll save the  _real_ beginning for when you’re older. I was waiting there for your papa, but I didn’t know him yet. When he showed up, the roof was rattling, the lights were shattering, and not much scares daddy, but your papa was something I’d never seen before, so I was maybe a little scared.

“He wasn’t scared of daddy though, and he was very serious before daddy showed him how to have some fun. He said,” Dean dropped his voice in an imitation of Castiel, “ ‘I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.’ ” He chuckled at his impression. “Your papa was pretty badass though, even when I, uh,  _poked_ him with a knife, he didn’t even blink.

“Even though I was scared, I think, even then… I don’t know, maybe it was the handprint, but something inside me just… called for him. I wish I’d have told him.” He looked down, into the baby’s sleeping face. “You have to tell people, when they matter. Daddy is going to work on that too, but you can’t let them go without knowing how important they are, okay? You, for example, are  _so_ important to me. I-I love you, okay?”

Sam turned quietly and left, feeling misty eyed and guilty for listening so long. Dean’s voice followed him down the hallway. “Did I ever tell you about the time papa showed up naked except for bees?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue left now. \o/


	11. Epilogue

~ 5 Years Later~

Dean stood in the kitchen of the bunker, slicing apples for a pie. He and Sam had taken Will to a nearby cider mill yesterday, and had come home with so many apples that Dean couldn’t justify _not_ making pie. He hummed to himself to fill the silence of the empty bunker. Claire and Charlie were out, hunting vamps in Wisconsin, and Dean didn’t expect them back for at least another three days. Sam had taken Will out for his regular visit with Hannah. Dean tried not to worry about it, he knew he could trust Hannah to keep Will safe, but even after all this time, he had a hard time shelving his distrust for Heaven in general.

He heard the heavy metal door at the top of the stairs creak open, and Sam calling after Will to be careful on the stairs. Dean smiled. The dark haired boy appeared in the doorway a few moments later, his freckled cheeks and nose pink from the brisk air outside.

“Hey, buddy! You and Uncle Sam back already?” William nodded and flung himself forward, wrapping his arms around Dean’s legs in a quick hug. The force of it jostled the knife in Dean's hand, sending the apple sliding across the counter and the blade across the pad of his thumb. “Sh-shoot!” He checked his language at the last second and grabbed the kitchen towel, wrapping it around his thumb and squeezing it, catching the worried look on his son’s face when he glanced down.

“You ‘kay Daddy?” The boy asked carefully.

Dean smiled in spite of the accident, pulling the towel back to inspect the cut. “Yeah, I’m okay. We gotta be careful ‘round knives though, okay?”

He nodded, and then tugged at Dean’s arm. “Lemme see.” Dean squatted down and let him examine the cut, watching him as he frowned down at it, eyes narrowed. “I'll make it better.”

Dean smiled fondly. “I hear kisses make cuts feel better.”

The boy gave him an annoyed look that was pure Cas, and then looked back at the cut, chewing his lip. He very gently set two chubby fingers against the pad of Dean’s thumb and closed his eyes. Dean felt a tiny flutter through his hand, and it reminded him of the swoop of power he’d feel when Cas…

“There.” He said with a satisfied nod. “All better.” He looked up at Dean questioningly.

Dean stared at his thumb where the cut had been, but the skin was smooth and whole. “Uh, yeah.”

He smiled wider. “Just like Papa?”

Dean sucked in a sharp breath and pulled his son to his chest so he wouldn’t misunderstand the tears that suddenly stung his eyes. “Yeah, Buddy. Just like Papa.” Dean sucked in a breath to fortify himself, then pulled back to get a better look at Will’s face. “You wanna watch me make the pie?”

“Can I help?” He asked, excited.

Dean chuckled. “Sure. I’ll finish the cutting, and you can sprinkle the cinnamon when I’m ready, ‘kay?” He hefted him up to sit on the counter next to where he was working. “Did you have fun with Aunt Hannah today? You’re back pretty early this time.”

Will nodded vigorously. “We had ice cream and we went to see the salty flats.”

“Yeah?” Dean said stiffly, trying not to let the idea of his son being half-way across the country (world?) for a few hours bother him. He handed Will a slice of apple to distract himself from that thought.

“Yeah. Aunt Hannah said we couldn’t be too long, ‘cause of a big ‘portant angel meeting, but there was sky up top  _and_ on the ground… Aunt Hannah said Heaven’s like that sometimes.

“That sounds pretty cool.”

“Uh-huh.” He agreed with a mouth full of apple. He was quiet for moment, munching away and watching Dean methodically slice apple after apple. “She told me a story today, a papa story.”

“She did?” Dean asked, surprised. He swallowed some uneasiness, hoping that Hannah had remembered to keep things age appropriate, and wracking his brain to try and figure out what story she would have felt compelled to tell.

“She doesn’t tell stories like you.” Dean chuckled at that, and the boy frowned. “She doesn’t do any voices at all.”

“Well, I’ve just had more practice, that’s all, I tell you stories all the time.”

“Not  _this_ story.” It wasn’t quite an accusation.

“Oh. Well, maybe I didn’t know this story, what was it about?” He asked, curious and weirdly nervous.

“About how papa changed Heaven.”

Confusion played over Dean’s features. “I don’t think I know that story… Why don’t you tell it?”

Shock and excitement showed on the boy’s face, the idea of being the one to  _tell_ a story made him feel important, and he sat up straighter. “Well, okay, but… I can’t do any voices.” He warned.

Dean laughed. “That’s okay. I like stories without voices just as much.”

The boy nodded. “So, a long long long time ago, the angels weren’t ‘llowed to feel stuff or love nothin’, they just had to do what they were told and they couldn’t be mad or sad about it, ‘cause they didn’t have no feelings at all… they couldn’t be happy neither.” He paused, as if waiting for Dean to correct him, but Dean only nodded for him to continue, absently rolling out the crust for their pie. Will took a deep breath to continue, “For ever and ever, angels just weren’t s’posed to love or anything, but then papa saved you, and he loved you anyway.”

The rolling pin came to a slow stop, as Dean stared at the dough blankly, not daring to look up, and waiting for his son to continue.

“A lot of angels didn’t like it, ‘cause it wasn’t ‘llowed, and they tried to keep him away from you, but he didn’t listen, even though he could get in trouble for it.” Dean swallowed, but Will didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, he just went on with his story. “So then, some angels took papa back to heaven, and they tried to take his love away, tried to make papa hurt you instead of help you. But, papa loved you too much. Even when they thought they fixed him not to feel stuff anymore, he still did, and he didn’t hurt you like he was s’posed to, he just loved you more instead. Aunt Hannah told about a bunch of other stuff that happened too, but I don’t remember all she said, just the part at the end, how papa loved you so much it changed all of Heaven, and made it better, so the other angels can love and be happy now too.”

Dean tried to think of something to say, anything that he could push past the lump in his throat and the hitch in his breath, but nothing came to mind.

The boy tilted his head at Dean. “Daddy?”

Sam, who must have been listening from the doorway, stepped into the room and cleared his throat, sparing Dean from responding just that second. “That’s a true story,” He said, sending his brother a calculating glance, “but there’s a whole other part.”

“There is?” Will asked, almost suspiciously, and Dean turned confused and misty eyes on Sam.

“Absolutely, and it’s the most important part, I think. You see, your daddy loved your papa too, he loved him so much that things that used to be impossible just weren’t anymore. They loved each other  _so_ much, that even after Cas was gone, it made  _you._ Pretty neat, huh?”

Will nodded, both impressed and thoughtful, and then turned his blue eyes on this father. “Do you miss him, Daddy?”

Dean huffed a shaky breath and picked his son up and hugged him, placing a kiss in his mess of hair. “’Course I do, buddy, every day, but… I try not to be sad, ‘cause your papa wouldn’t want me to be sad. Besides, I have you, how can I be sad when I have such a cool little dude to hang out with?” Dean wriggled a finger in his ribs, and Will giggled, but then sobered almost immediately.

“I wish I got to see him sometime.” He murmured into Dean’s shoulder.

Dean tossed Sam a pained look, and stroked the child’s back. “Me too buddy, but you know what? If I learned one thing from your papa, it was never to count out the impossible. Maybe one day he’ll surprise us.”

“Really?”

"Really." He set him back on the counter. "Now, you ready to help me with this pie?”


End file.
